


Doctor's Orders

by SteveRogerThat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Banter, Bearded Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, For fuck's sake Rogers, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Masturbation, No Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Reader-Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexting, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Standing Sex, Steve Rogers & Reader - Freeform, Steve Rogers & You - Freeform, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve Rogers x Reader - Freeform, Steve Rogers x You - Freeform, Strong Female Characters, Trapped In Elevator, Vaginal Fingering, consent is sexy AF, orgasms are fun aren't they, stairwell kissing is severely underrated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-06-13 01:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveRogerThat/pseuds/SteveRogerThat
Summary: There are 3 things you are certain of: 1.  Tony Stark needs to give you a pay raise 2.  Natasha can hold her liquor and 3.  Steve Rogers is the last person with whom you’d want to be trapped on an elevator.





	1. Trapped

“Breathe in,” you instruct, holding the stethoscope to his chest. You hear a shallow intake of breath then look directly into his clear, blue eyes. You manage a smile. 

“Deep breaths, please,” you state, your tone even and calm in spite of the frustration steeping inside you. 

You listen carefully to each strained breath as you move the stethoscope around, then between, his pectorals. Out of your peripheral vision, you see him watching you, his features stoic and cold, made more intimidating by the several fresh sets of stitches running across his cheekbone and just under his temple. He is in a shit mood, and with any other patient, you’d feel a pang of sympathy, you’d remind yourself to give him the kind of treatment you’d want to receive in turn. But with this man, you nearly revel in the chance to put him in his place. _Good man, my ass._

You lower your stethoscope, letting it come to rest on your shoulders. “Captain Rogers, you have three fractured ribs, and you are going to need time to let them heal…”

“Time is what I don’t have,” Steve replies, cutting you off. He lifts himself off of the examination table, and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. 

You sigh and ignore his comment. “Until you have a clean bill of health, I cannot provide you with medical clearance for any upcoming missions.” 

“Then it’s a good thing I’m the boss and don’t need your permission to do my job.” Steve puts on his jacket and walks out of your office. You throw your hands up into the air in a move of sheer exasperation before following him down the corridor. His large frame makes him easy to spot, and you quickly jog the several yards separating you two, easily catching up to him. 

“Captain Rogers.” You place your hand on the back of his tricep, and he whips around. Without much effort, he manages to make himself look taller, his posture alone exuding confidence. Steve narrows his brow, and in return, you stare up at him with unabashed defiance and purse your lips into a straight, hard line. 

“Being the head of the Avengers doesn’t give you the right to ignore my diagnosis. You do this every time, every single time,” you reiterate, enunciating each word for emphasis, “even it’s a mild concussion. Aren’t you tired of fighting me?” 

“Fighting is my job; I can do this all day.” A self-assured, smug grin manifests over Steve’s face. It is a smile with which you’re familiar, the intended effect being to weaken knees and send hearts aflutter, but all you can do is roll your eyes. 

“I didn’t go through residency hell and working as an on-call attending to be dismissed. ”

“Look, I’m not trying to be dismissive. Trust me when I say that this isn’t personal,” he sighs, and for a moment, you hear the edge in his voice soften, and your frustration begins to follow suite. “I know what my body is capable of, and the serum I took...”

“…has given your cells extraordinary regenerative properties that allow your body to heal at four times the rate of the average individual,” you interrupt as Steve looks away in mild annoyance. “I’ve read your file. My recommendation stands. It’s about time you realize that I am damn good at my job.”

“That makes the two of us,” he shoots back. 

“But the difference is that the title in my name was earned, not handed to me like a participation trophy, Captain Rogers.” 

As soon as the words leave your lips, you wish you could reach out, yank them from the air, and choke each one back down. But it is too late. For a second, Steve’s steely eyes flicker, his emotions running the gamut of anger, shock, and hurt before he turns and walks away, each of his steps echoing with simmering rage. 

“Steve,” you call out, knowing your effort is for naught. You consider chasing after him, but your better judgment binds you to that very spot. Your body is flooded with regret, regret at having said something remarkably cruel, but more so, to have said something that you know, in your bones, couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“Shit,” you curse as you head back to your office. 

* * *  
Natasha looks at you thoughtfully then, after taking a long sip from her glass, finally answers your question. 

“No, you didn’t fuck up.”

“You weren’t there. It was brutal.” You take a swig, tipping your drink all the way back. The ice hits your lips as you drain the last of your whiskey, savoring the way it burns the back of your throat. 

“Rogers took down S.H.I.E.L.D. The man can take care of himself. Don’t worry about it.” 

“I should just quit.”

“You’re being a tad dramatic. If it’s your job you’re worried about…”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then what?” Natasha asks, pouring another. “Why are we sitting here in this stuffy conference room, digging into Tony’s private liquor collection? Don’t get me wrong, I like mid-week cocktails as much as the next woman, but this isn’t what I had in mind when you suggested getting a drink.”

You chuckle at this, feeling both relieved to confide in her and to get this off your chest. 

“What bothers me,” you say, running your finger around the rim of the glass, watching the drops of condensation drip down the sides, “is that when I see Steve, I feel like I have no control over myself, especially when it comes to what I say, what I do…”

“Yeah, Steve has that effect on some people,” Natasha replies, revealing a half-smirk. 

“That’s not what I meant.” You gather and lift your hair off the back of your neck, loosely holding it up in an effort to alleviate the growing warmth as the alcohol starts to hit you. “I am usually a measured person, but never around Steve. There are a lot of unusual challenges to working here, and I like that. But who would’ve thought that America’s sweetheart, the man with the plan and the majesty of a bald eagle would be the biggest pain in my ass.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows and rests her chin against her palm. “I would’ve called it.”

You wave this away with a flippant gesture of your hand. 

“I’m being serious,” she says, adjusting herself upright. “Do you remember the last time Rhodes tried to board the quinjet without your clearance? You marched onto that ramp and injected him with enough propofol to drop him to the floor like a rag doll. You and Rogers are two of the most stubborn people I know.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you mutter, and you hear the petulance in your voice, and based on the amusement on her face, Natasha does too. Before she can say anything, you clarify, “I’m principled.”

“And Steve is not?”

You may be obstinate, but you’re not an idiot. You know that Natasha is right, and your silence is telling. 

“Exactly,” she concludes. “C’mon, it’s late. Let’s go, and next time, can we go to a real bar?” 

You laugh and nod your head in agreement, clearing the table of your glasses then gathering up your belongings. You exchange goodbyes and as Natasha heads for the living quarters, you walk in the opposite direction towards the elevator. It has been a long day, and you are looking forward to getting home, looking as unpresentable as possible, and lying in bed.

You are checking your phone, reading through the texts you’d missed, when the elevator doors open. You take a step inside and look up. Your eyes meet Steve’s, and the ease you’d felt just earlier in the evening evaporates. It doesn’t take long to compose yourself, and you situate yourself completely into the elevator, hitting the button for the ground floor.

“Captain Rogers,” you say, acknowledging his presence. He replies in turn, and the sound of your name on his lips has an icy ring to it, to no one’s surprise. The tension in the air is too thick to cut, even with a knife, and you aim to distract yourself. You look to the top of the doors and watch the numbers descend in quick succession until you feel the carriage come to a sudden, halting stop. You instinctively push the ground floor button again to no avail. You glance down at your phone, still in your hand, and see the words ‘No Service’ where the WiFi signal should be. Begrudgingly, you turn towards Steve.

“A little help here?”

“What do you want me to do?” he says, shrugging his shoulders, a look of mild amusement spreading across his face. 

“I don’t know,” you reply, trying to mask your apparent aggravation. “Earlier today, weren’t you asserting yourself as the boss? Doesn’t the boss fix problems?” 

“Planning extractions and incarcerating Vibranium weapon manufacturers is more my speed.” Steve takes a step toward you, tucking his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. He gestures towards the elevator buttons, which are now lighting up at random, resembling a malfunctioning Christmas light display. “Technology issues are overseen by Tony. Not my area of expertise.”

“But somehow medicine is in your area of expertise?” you retort, setting your bag down. 

“You’d be surprised.”

You take a seat on the floor and lean your back against the back wall of the elevator. You are slightly shocked when Steve follows suite because if the shoe had been on the other foot, if he had said those cutting, condescending words to you, his body would be at the bottom of this elevator shaft, super strength or not. Your eyes flit over towards Steve, and you survey him, glancing up then down. You’re not sure whether it’s his worn t-shirt, or the way his arms are propped atop his knees, but his presence is surprisingly disarming. 

“I’m sorry. About today,” you say, slowly. 

“Apology not necessary.” 

“No, it is. My anger got the best of me, and I acted like an asshole. It was completely unprofessional of me. I didn’t mean what I said. At all.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Steve turns his head, and for the first time since you’d started working at the compound, Steve smiles at you, sincerely and earnestly. You notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his cheeks turn upwards, giving him an openness that you haven’t seen before. It’s a good look on him. 

“I actually…no, never mind,” you shake your head, stopping yourself. 

“What? Say it,” Steve prods. You hesitate. “You know I’m relentless, and we could be here all night. Say it.” 

You bite your lower lip and pause before speaking. “I actually think you’re quite commendable when it comes to your job.” You wish you stopped after your first glass of whiskey because with each utterance, you feel your inhibition slipping away. “And it’s because you’re whip-smart that you can think outside the box and save lives, which sometimes has to mean defying orders.” 

Steve arches his eyebrows at your response, and you can’t quite read his expression. He is quiet for a moment as he adjusts himself so that his long legs stretch out in front of him. You can’t see it, but you know that your cheeks are flushed a subtle shade of scarlet from embarrassment, not from alcohol. 

“Does that mean I’m cleared to go on missions?” he asks, only half-joking.

“No,” you blurt out, and at this, Steve laughs. 

“You deserve an apology as well. I’m sorry for dismissing you and walking out. I was wrong to do that.” 

“Is it a woman thing?” you inquire, tucking your legs under you and turning your body to face Steve. “Like, is it because you’re from a different era and the patriarchy was alive and kickin’ when you were around…”

“No, definitely not,” he replies, humored. “I rather have a thing for strong women.” _Duly noted._

“Then what is it?”

Steve sighs, crossing his arms. “I’ve never liked going to the doctor. I spent a lot of my childhood in and out of hospitals and doctors’ offices. And no matter who saw me, I never got better, and the list of ‘don’ts’ only grew longer. After awhile, I was more of a nuisance than a patient to them because they had no interest in helping a sickly kid from Brooklyn.”

You reach out and place your hand on his. “I’m so sorry, Steve.” 

In preparation for this job, you’d spent many nights reading through all of their files, poring through each Avenger’s medical histories and lab work-ups. As a result, you could ramble off Steve’s previous ailments in your sleep. But hearing him talk about his experience with personal candor makes him feel more human to you, and suddenly, it’s not so easy to write him off as an arrogant golden boy anymore. In fact, you feel a pang of guilt at having done so in the first place. 

“So,” he continues, “needless to say, I tend to shrug off what medical professionals tell me, and that’s not fair to you. I will work on that.” Steve gazes into your eyes, and the intensity of his stare compels you to look away. 

“Thank you.” There is a moment of charged silence when you realize that your hand is still resting on his. You place it on the floor beside you, hoping not to draw attention to this movement. 

“Speaking of work,” Steve says, changing the subject, “I have something to ask you.”

“Hit me.”

“Have you been drinking?” 

“No…Yes…I mean…” you stammer, stopping to compose yourself. An impish grin slides its way across Steve’s mouth. “Natasha and I had a few after my shift was done. I wasn’t drinking on the job if that’s what you mean.” You shoot him a playful look. 

“That wasn’t what I was insinuating. I break enough rules for the both of us.” Maybe it’s the whiskey, or it’s the intimacy of the enclose space, but hearing the word ‘us’ after it leaves his lips that gives you a moment’s pause. “You seem more forthright, that’s all.”

“Alcohol tends to have that effect on us mortals. That, and,” you point to the rosy apples of your cheeks, “it gives us a little bit of color. Not so much on super-soldiers, huh?”

Steve shakes his head ‘no.’ “So, if I ask you a question, you’ll give me an honest answer?”

“Most definitely. As long as it doesn’t violate anyone’s right to privacy, you know, HIPAA and all.”

Steve rubs his hands together in thought. “Alright, got it. Favorite Avenger?”

“Natasha. Or Thor.”

“Do you hate me?”

“Prior to this conversation, kind of. Now…the jury’s still out.” You smile reassuringly at Steve, which he returns in kind. 

“Married? Boyfriend?”

“No, just a bunch of guys I fuck a lot,” you answer without missing a beat. Steve’s eyes widen, and his mouth is slightly ajar, and whether it’s out of bewilderment or delight, you chuckle at his reaction. “Kidding,” you add on.  


“Do you think we are going to ever get out of this elevator?”

“Nope, and it’s for this exact reason that I keep snacks in my purse.” You reach over and grab your tote, then open the side pocket. You take out a bag of sour strawberries and pass it over to Steve, who gladly accepts. 

“Okay,” you pop a gummy into your mouth, “my turn. But how can I tell you’re being honest?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders and puts his hands up, closing his eyes for a moment as a small, close-lipped smile appears. It softens his characteristically rugged face into one that is boyish and endearing. You notice his long lashes when his eyes flutter open. “I’m always honest.”

“Alright, fuck, marry, kill: Sam, Tony, Vision.”

Steve thinks for a moment as he chews the tart piece of candy. “Fuck Vision, marry Sam, kill Tony.”  
It is now your turn to furrow your brow in surprise. “I told you: I’m honest.”

“Last time you were kissed, truly kissed?”

“Abigail Schroeder, 2015, we went on two dates before she got back together with her ex.”

You wrinkle your nose and cringe. “Ouch.”

“It happens,” he says matter-of-factly. 

A few seconds pass, and silence begins to fill the carriage. There is still a question you’d like to ask, it’s dancing on the tip of your tongue, but you are weary to let your curiosity get the better of you. The boldness attained from the whiskey is starting to wear off. Steve scoots himself closer to you, as if sensing your hesitation, and he smells like clean laundry hanging off the line and rain in mid-July. It’s both homey and intoxicating. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

“Well, this has taken a turn. I threw you some softball questions, but I see how it is now,” he teases. 

You fold your arms good-naturedly. “You don’t have to answer.”

“No,” Steve looks at you, lowering his voice, and his glassy blue eyes stare into yours. “I am not a virgin.”

The floor of the elevator jostles underneath you, and both you and Steve stand up as you feel it finally move down towards the ground level. You smooth out the wrinkles on your trousers and clear your throat. A chime announces the elevator’s arrival at its final destination, and the doors open. 

“Goodnight, Captain Rogers. This,” you smile at him, “was a lot more fun than I’d anticipated.” You take a few steps outside of the elevator and are about to round the corner when you hear Steve call your name. You turn to see his body positioned between the heavy doors, holding one side open with his hand. 

“Steve. You can call me Steve.”

“Alright, Steve.” You take another step further from him, then pivot on your heel once more. “Those ribs of yours. They might be healed in a couple of days, I think. You can come see me then.”

“It’s a date.” 

You nod your head in Steve’s direction and adjust your bag on your shoulder. You turn around and can feel Steve’s eyes on you as you move further away. You resist the temptation to turn and look at him. You were wrong. Steve Rogers is a good man after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would YOU do if you were stuck on an elevator with this man?   
> 


	2. Tricked

You prop your elbows up against the top of your desk, folding one hand over the other and rest your chin against your knuckles. He sits there quietly, attentively, waiting to hear your thoughts. “So, herein lies the problem: the x-ray doesn’t give us much information, and there is no definitive way to tell what is causing your shoulder pain without conducting an MRI. And with your arm, we can’t put you into an MRI machine.”

Bucky cocks his head to the side and releases a breath he’s been holding. “And that’s why you are hesitant to sign my clearance.”

“Correct.”

A mischievous gleam twinkles in his eyes, and you inwardly groan, certain of what’s to come. “Doc, have I told you how stunning you look in that dress?” he inquires.

“Sergeant Barnes…”

“I mean, the color is really flattering for your…” Bucky stops, running his tongue over his teeth and stalling for time as his brain attempts to catch up to his mouth, “…flattering for your…um…head.”

You stand up and stroll over to the empty seat across from Bucky, resting your hands on its backing. “Barnes. Enough with the cheesy lines.”

“I’m not even giving you my cheesy lines; these are my good ones.”

You laugh at the frankness in his voice. “Tell me, do they work? Like, on humans?”

“Once in awhile,” he claims as a look of humored disbelief emerges on your face. “I’m rusty, okay? I haven’t used them in 75 years. Give an old, Soviet assassin a break.”

You smile at his answer. “Got it, Gramps.”

Bucky stands, shakes your hand, and thanks you. Since you’ve started working at the facility, Bucky has risen through the ranks, quickly becoming one of your favorite patients to treat. His self- deprecating sense of humor and his willingness to listen are refreshing, so much so that until his earlier remark, you’d entirely forgotten about his sordid past. Bucky reaches for the doorknob, and when you call his name, he looks over his shoulder at you. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but there are other operatives who can take your place. It’s just one mission.”

Bucky flashes a genuine smile, and you can’t help but notice that he’s got characteristically kind eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks for seeing me, Doc.” 

You stand in the threshold of the doorway as Bucky strolls towards the waiting area. He stops, greeting someone who is just beyond your line of sight. You watch Bucky while he engages in conversation; his arms rest comfortably at his sides, warmth and resignation alight his face, and although you can’t quite make out what he’s saying, there’s a certain familiarity in his stance. It hits you all at once, you know exactly who is standing just beyond that corridor, and there’s a muted wave of sensation, just north of your stomach, as if an errant balloon meandered back and forth in that confined space. Your concentration is broken at the sound of your intercom chirping. 

“Captain Rogers is here for his 12:00 appointment.” 

You hold down the button to reply. “Great, send him in.” You grab your iPad from the outer corner of your desk when you hear a light knock at the door. You turn to look, and Steve’s towering physique stands in the threshold, his body seeming to engulf any open space. He rests his hand against the wooden doorframe, and you catch yourself staring at the outline of his arm, right where his shirtsleeve meets his bicep. You look away, then gesture towards the chair, urging your stupid eyes to start acting professionally.

“Captain Rogers, take a seat.”

“Steve,” he says as his body weight settles into the plush chair. 

“Sorry, Steve,” you correct yourself and lean against the edge of your desk. You hand over the iPad. “You look good.”

“You look good, too,” he replies, reaching for the tablet. His eyes meet yours, and for an instant, you could swear that he glanced down to the scooped neckline of your dress. 

“I meant your ribs,” you explain light-heartedly. 

“You didn’t.” Lines run across Steve’s forehead as he lifts an eyebrow, and a corner of his mouth curves up into the hint of a smile. 

You swallow a retort, then tap the illuminated image on the screen with your fingertip. “From this morning’s x-rays. It appears that all three of your fractures have fully healed, which means I’ll sign off on your medical clearance.” Steve nods in acknowledgement of this information and passes the iPad back to you. 

You jot down a couple of notes to yourself before pulling up the clearance form. “When do you leave?” you ask while scrawling your name across the document. 

“Tonight. Don’t pine for me while I’m away. That’ll just be embarrassing.” Your eyes dart up from the screen at the proximity of Steve’s voice, and he is standing next to you, his broad shoulder inches from your eye line. 

“I only pine for men worth my time so you have nothing to worry about,” you say as you return the iPad to its space on your desk, and more than ever, it is clear that the connection between your brain and your mouth is too sharp for your own good. Before you can reprimand yourself, the singular timbre of Steve’s laugh fills your office, and it is a welcome sound. You rise and remove your coat, hanging it up on the back of the door when Steve breaks the silence. 

“I have a favor to ask of you.” Your eyes connect, and Steve takes this as a sign to resume talking. “I need you to sign off on Barnes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rogers.”

Steve takes a step in your direction. “Bucky told me that you didn’t say he couldn’t go, just that you were hesitant to allow him.” You avert your eyes and shake your head while a wave of annoyance ushers out any remnant feelings of goodwill you’ve been harboring for this man.

“Man,” you sigh, placing your hands on your hips, “too bad you all don’t have Stark technology and Banner’s brain to get you through it. Oh, wait, you do.”

“It’s a remote Hydra base, and Barnes is the only one who’s been there, been inside. The chances of our success increase exponentially with his intimate knowledge.” 

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” you mutter incredulously. Steve walks another foot forward, yet again closing the gap between you. 

“Just think about it. If you had a patient who was hurt, how would you proceed before operating: would you review an x-ray and an MRI to see what’s happening or would you order an endoscopy and get a first-hand look?” asks Steve, the tenor of his voice steady and calm. 

“Both.”

“Then I think you should consider signing Barnes’ medical clearance,” Steve suggests. 

You look up at him, a picture of sincerity, and hold off on dismissing his request. You let Steve’s statement marinate, and you turn it over in your head, this way then that, scrutinizing it for flaws. Bucky’s shoulder could be nothing but the expected aches and pains of someone in any extreme, physical line of work. You would never admit it, especially not to Steve, but he has a point. Maybe you are being overly cautious. 

“Barnes’ job on this mission is only to provide intel, no combat, understand?” 

“Got it,” Steve responds with a slight nod of his head. “Thank you.”

You escort Steve to the door, crossing your arms over your chest, hoping that doing this will mask how foolish you feel at the moment. “So all of that was bullshit?”

“All of what?” Steve looks at you, confusion etched across his features. 

“The other night in the elevator? That was a rouse to disarm me and get me to do your bidding? It’s clever,” you admit with an edge to your voice. Right now, it is easier to be cold than to allow yourself to feel the slightest bit of hurt by him. 

It takes Steve a moment to register your accusation, and the second he does, you see his face contort into an expression of bewilderment then regret. “No, please don’t think that. Who you met in the elevator, that was real. I don’t take advantage of people, and like I said, I am always honest.”

You lean against the back of the door. “Fool me once.”

“What can I do to get you to believe me?” Steve reaches a hand out and places it on your shoulder. You reach up and drop Steve’s hand back down to his side. 

“Bye Steve.”

Steve opens his mouth as if to say something, runs his hand through his blondish hair, then bites his lip instead. As he leaves, he gives you a small wave, and you shut your office door, listening as the sound of his footfall grows softer with each step. You make a mental note to ask Tony for a bonus this Christmas. 

* * *  
“What are you saying exactly?” You shift your feet, redistributing the weight from the side of your body that’s carrying your laptop and your gym bag to the other, as if doing so will alter what you heard. 

“I’m saying,” Maria Hill hands you a slip of paper, “you’re on active on-call for the next two days, give or take however long this mission lasts. I know this is last minute, so to compensate, we will send someone to your place to pack whatever you need, and we will pay you overtime. The rest is standard procedure, and all that you might need, medical equipment, scrubs, access to an O.R., etc., will be provided to you on the quinjet or at your final destination.”

You thank Maria for notifying you as she heads down to the hangar to confirm that you’d received your assignment. You’d been on active on-call before, though you confess, it had been awhile. And you’d covered for colleagues with relative frequency as well. You aren’t even surprised really. No. The feeling in your gut is more nagging suspicion than anything else, and that little voice in your head, the one you’ve come to trust, says that Steve Rogers is behind this. 

You store your gym bag in the back closet of your office, and you’re on your way out of the building when you see the distinct bob of red hair ahead of you. You jog to catch up to it, your laptop bag bouncing with each step. 

“Natasha.” 

She greets you with a smile. “Hey. I heard you’re joining us,” she says warmly. 

“I am. Say, I was wondering if you knew what happened to Dr. Lee. I think he was supposed to be on for tonight.”

Natasha wrinkles her brow in thought. “I’m not completely sure, but I heard that he had car trouble.”

A feeling of apprehension grips your vocal chords, but you manage to speak. “He didn’t get into an accident, did he?” 

“No, no, nothing like that,” says Natasha, shaking her head as she punches in the access code to the hanger. The doors slide open. “He’s fine. Steve talked to him a few minutes ago.” 

And just like that, you see him in the distance, no more than 50 yards away, and although his back is facing you, the outline of Steve’s body as he stands on the quinjet ramp is unmistakable. Natasha walks ahead, stopping to talk to Dr. Banner, and you steadily approach Steve, pausing only to hand off your bag to an eager, bright-eyed agent. Steve doesn’t appear to take notice of you until you sidle up beside him. He lifts his head up, his attention no longer on the cargo door latches but now on you. There is a sort of wide-eyed wonder in the way Steve looks, like a puppy experiencing the outdoors for the first time. You would find it adorable if you didn’t feel ticked at him for his meddling.

“Hi,” he starts. 

“Do you care to explain yourself?” you say, keeping your voice low as a bevy of activity, people loading the jet, seasoned agents testing the gages, swirls around you. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Steve shrugs, attempting to convey his innocence.

“You really are terrible at lying.”

“Because I’m always honest. That never seems to catch on with you.”

You lean your head in closer. The last thing you need is a loose-lipped colleague overhearing your conversation and spreading rumors about tension among the team. “You’re deflecting so you don’t have to answer my question.”

“Which was…” Steve asks, walking over to the cockpit to check a lever. You follow close behind. 

“Okay, I don’t have time for this, so I’ll be straight with you.” Steve bends down, ducking his head beneath the control panel, but you proceed to pitch your hypothesis. “I think that you did something to Dr. Lee, he called out of active duty, and now I’ve been summoned to replace him for this trip, all because of your ministrations.” 

“Nope.” You see Steve’s head pop out from underneath the panel, and faint traces of smile lines accentuate the lower half of his face. “I didn’t do anything to Dr. Lee. I happened to see him in the parking lot, commented that he might want to have his car checked out, and he said he would use a personal day to take it in.”

“You’re a manipulative ass.” 

You turn on your heel to walk away, certain that the anger creeping up the sides of your neck is tinting it a shade of crimson. You don’t even see him stand up, but Steve manages to place himself in front of you with impressive alacrity. Any hints of a smile are now gone, and his face is marked by his trademark sincerity. You do your best to hold onto this frustration and not relinquish it to his infuriatingly handsome face. 

“I am sorry. Really, I am. I am not much of a rule follower. But I had a good reason for doing what I did.”

You raise your eyebrows, signaling for him to continue, which he does. 

“Out of all of the doctors that practice here, you are Bucky’s favorite, and I can see why. You are meticulous, persistent, personable, and most of all, you put your patients’ health first. Bucky’s my oldest friend, and I just want the best care for him in case anything happens, which I know for a fact you will give him, no matter the circumstance.”

You look down, feeling self-conscious and at a loss for words as Steve’s admittance chips away at your hardy resolve. Through lidded eyes, you see him tip his head down to look at you, and you stare right back at him. 

“I’m still mad at you,” you plainly state, walking past him and back down the ramp. 

“I’d expect nothing less,” Steve says, calling after you. 

You massage the right half of your forehead with your hand, rubbing away the start of a headache that’s breaking ground in your temple. _This is going to be a long trip._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? Dislike it? Were you surprised by anything? I always welcome feedback and comments to gauge your reactions. :) Looking forward to hearing for you!


	3. Teased

Your fingers move dexterously over the keys, and the sporadic clicks puncture the relative quiet of the cabin. Natasha’s at the controls, chatting intermittently with Sam, who’s to her right, while Bucky dozes in his chair, having reclined it as far back as it would go. You look over at him, and the sight of the former Winter Soldier emitting barely audible snores makes you chuckle. The sound of your laugh, although muted, catches Bruce’s attention. He reaches to take off his headphones, but you wave that idea away. Without speaking, you gesture over to Bucky. Bruce smiles before resuming his research, and you take this as a cue to return to your work. 

Your eyes move back and forth over the screen, and without looking up, you know Steve is watching you behind the cover of his book. In fact, he has been sneaking glances at you for a while now: when you examined Bucky’s arm, while you inquired about Thor’s whereabouts, and after you nearly gave Sam an aneurysm for referring to Redwing as a fancy drone. He even grabbed your attention for a minute when he got up, ambled over to you, only to do an about face and return to his seat. You try to update the notes on a patient when you find yourself struggling to weave your sentences together. Having admitted defeat, you shut your laptop and stroll towards Steve, finally sliding into a seat beside him. As he lowers his book, you tilt your head and grant him a smile, giving him a reprieve from your wrath. 

Steve sets his book off to the side. “We seem to keep getting off on the wrong foot.” 

“Maybe because you keep leading with the wrong foot,” you claim. 

“In other words, you are 0% at fault for our rocky starts,” he confirms, unable to hide his skepticism. 

“Now you get it.”

Steve leans back, and his eyes sweep over you in a single movement. It makes you feel more aware of your body than you’re accustomed to, but to say it makes you uncomfortable is far from the truth. “You’ve got moxie. I like that about you.”

“Moxie, huh? You can take a boy out of the ‘40s but you can’t take the ‘40s out of the boy,” you exhale. 

“What?” Steve’s voice is tinged with incredulity. He knits his brow together, and you smile at the two, deep vertical lines that appear, right above the bridge of his nose, emphasizing the symmetry of his features. “It’s a word people use,” he insists.

“I’m kidding. Thank you, especially since I’m not sure everyone appreciates my moxie.”

“Not possible.”

“No, very possible. I think some people find it off-putting, or as my mom likes to say, ‘your tenacity is either going to kill you or get you killed.’ I just don’t like to give up, you know,” your eyes, brimming with authenticity, converge with his. “I’ve always been like this, and it doesn’t matter if it’s playing Monopoly or getting the highest score on a test; when I want to do something…get out of my way.” 

“It got you this far, which I’d say isn’t too shabby.”

“You’re right,” you agree, giving a half-hearted nod. “It’s just a damn hard way to be sometimes.”

“Hey, you’re looking at a scrawny kid who’s never backed down from a fight, even when it meant getting the shit kicked out of me on the daily. I spent a lot of my childhood in dumpsters, bleeding, all over my borough. If anyone understands you,” Steve pauses to look your way, “it’s me.”

You are devoid of words, a rarity for you, as you watch Steve’s mouth slowly arch upward into a smile, one side, then the other, and his eyes flicker with specks of azure and maya. A charged silence fills the space between your chairs. It’s funny; you haven’t paid much attention to him in the past, waving him off for a multitude of reasons that now seem inane, but in this moment, you can’t think of anything else but Steve. 

A dull thud agitates the quiet, pulling yours and Steve’s attention towards Bruce, who has dropped a folder of papers onto the floor after falling asleep, his body curled up awkwardly in his chair. 

“Do you wanna…” Steve gestures towards the back of the carrier, where there is open space, enough for both of you to sit and stretch out your limbs. 

“Yes.” Steve reaches for your hand and pulls you up to standing. Your hand is in his for no more than a few seconds as you walk to the back, but you are nevertheless hesitant to let it go once you sit down. 

An hour passes, then another, and another. You bicker at him when he proclaims his love for the Yankees, and he seriously gasps when you divulge your devotion to the Red Sox. He tells you stories about third-wheeling Bucky’s dates to your chagrin, and you both giggle incessantly after you create a Tinder profile for Sam, laughing until your sides ache. Steve is sitting closer to you than a few nights before, and every time your shoulder brushes against his, you wonder whether he feels it too, these kindling sparks. You know you should probably get some sleep, but talking to Steve feels as natural as breathing, rolling organically from topic to topic. 

“Have you not slept at all?” 

The sound of Sam’s voice interrupts your conversation, and you are transported back to when you were 14 and your parents caught you on the computer in the early morning hours. You smile sheepishly and glance over at Steve, whose face is steadfast and confident. _Typical._

“It’ll be morning when we get there,” Steve assures him. “We’ve built in time to rest before we’ve got to head out.” 

“You may be able to sleep for a few hours, Cap, but this mug,” Sam outlines his face, “needs some beauty rest. It’s your turn to be pilot.” 

Steve shoots you a look, silently communicating an apology, then gets up and heads to the front. You remain seated on the cool floor as Sam takes up residence in one of the passenger seats. He turns around to face you as your eyelids start to feel heavy. You rest your head against the wall. 

“Doc?”

“Hmmm?”

“You and Rogers been talking this whole time?”

“Yeah.” Fatigue is enveloping you, making it difficult to focus on Sam’s questions. His voice sounds muffled as if your head is submerged under water. 

“You guys figure it out?”

You open one of your eyes (you hadn’t even known they were closed) and look confusedly at Sam. “Figure what out?”

“You know, which one of you has the most BDE? Big dick energy.”

“Mmmm, of course, and we concluded that it’s you.” You smile at Sam as he contentedly pulls his night mask over his eyes. 

“A+ answer.”

* * *

You log a couple of decent hours of rest by the time the wheels touch solid ground, grinding the quinjet to a startling halt. Ever the morning person, Sam is the most cheerful, and his enthusiasm and knack for conversation make the early start bearable. He even manages to get a smirk out of Bucky, who is decidedly not a morning person. You follow the team off the aircraft and shiver from the chill in the air. As you head into the base, you realize that Steve has not looked at you once, nor talked to you, since he took over for Sam. Almost as soon as this thought crosses your mind, you beat it away like an incessant, pesky insect. _Steve is here for work. You are here for work. And you have no right to feel even a little disappointed if his attention is elsewhere. Get. It. Together._

Steve runs through the logistics for the day before distributing lodging assignments. The team disperses, and although you get lost a couple of times, you locate your room regardless. You open the door and drop your bags onto the sofa, pulling out a set of comfy clothes. You head into the bathroom and shower, and only after changing do you walk over to the sliding glass door and take in the sight just beyond you. Your room faces a courtyard. In the spring, you are certain that it was scattered with a smattering of chairs and divans. Now, as autumn sets in, they are unrecognizable figures, blanketed in maroon, purple, and burnt sienna leaves. A few of their stubborn brethren cling to the nearly bare branches, holding on for dear life with each passing gale. 

You are watching a rather chubby squirrel inch its way down a tree trunk when you hear the faint buzzing of your phone. You reach into your bag and pull it out; you are pleasantly surprised to see Steve’s name written on the screen. You swipe your thumb across the bottom, unlocking your device. 

_Did you get to your room okay?_

A partial smile forms on your lips as you read the message, hearing Steve’s voice as narrator. 

_Yes, only managed to take a couple of wrong turns. It was dicey, but I survived,_ you reply. 

The feeling of wakefulness imparted to you from your shower begins to wane, and you nearly float over towards the large, inviting bed that awaits. You climb under the covers and melt into the crisp, clean sheets. Your phone vibrates in your hand. Steve again. 

_I wanted to walk you there, but I didn’t want to make other team members jealous. (Other team members being Sam, Bucky.)_

You laugh at this then type your response. _That seems accurate._

You reach for the remote. You scroll through a few channels, stopping at ones that pique your interest, when you hear your phone yet again. 

_Are you going to sleep?_

You cock your head to one side, your brow furrowed, as your wits busy themselves trying to get a read on Steve. You type carefully. 

_That’s the plan. But not asleep yet. Clearly._

Steve: _Me neither._ What follows his statement nearly bowls you over, causing you to gawk at your screen. It’s a picture of Steve, but his face is out of the shot. Instead, all you can see are his long legs sprawled on top of his comforter, clad in only a pair of boxer briefs. The photo leaves just enough to the imagination, and you are drawn to his waistband, v-shaped lines peeking out, guiding your line of sight towards his lower abdomen. 

You hold the phone in your hands, closing your eyes then opening them, wracking your brain for an appropriate response. 

_Your room’s got a great view._ You quickly press ‘send’ before your nerves can get the better of you. 

Steve’s reply is almost instant. _I’m curious what your view is like._

 _Fuck shit balls mother fucker_ and every other curse word known to man sprint through your rattled brain. You cover your face with your hands in both agony and delight at what is happening. _This can’t be real. You are too sober for this. You are too tired for this. You…_ You shush the logical part of your mind as you pull back the covers. You roll your shoulders back and toss your head to the right, then the left. _You can do this, you can do this, you can do this…_ You rest your back against the headboard and prop up your knees so your feet lay flat against the bed. You hold your phone up, snapping the picture from an aerial angle before reviewing it. There’s a hint of your breasts, tucked away beneath your fitted tank, but the main focus centers around your lacey boy shorts, highlighting the shapeliness of your thighs and the inward curves of your waist. Send. 

Seconds tick by then minutes. It feels like an eternity. Your anxiety is starting to set in, nibbling away at whatever scraps of poise you possess, when you see your screen light up. 

Steve: _Your view is better. Significantly better._

You can’t help but imagine Steve, a look of mild surprise about his eyes, a look that evolves into one that is playfully wanton as his thumbs carefully type out each letter. You smile. You push some of your hair off to the side, letting it fall behind your ear, and you unconsciously chew your bottom lip. Finally, your agile fingers move across your keyboard. _Not sure about that. We’d have to compare them in person to know for certain._

Steve: _Of course. For research purposes._

You slide back down onto the mattress, disappearing under the blankets. For your sanity, you will yourself to put a placeholder on this exchange, disregarding what you’d actually like to do. _Gonna have to save research for another day. Time to sleep. Don’t forget to enjoy the view._

Steve: _I plan to._

Your head sinks into the pillow as you set your phone on the bedside table. You replay the events of the past few hours, and it leaves you dizzy, invigorated, and flushed, like sledding down a snowy embankment as you navigate its rises and falls. You close your eyes, in hopes of resigning yourself to slumber, and instead of darkness, all you see is the patch of taut bare skin right above Steve’s briefs. Your eyelids flit open. _Maybe sleep is for the weak,_ you suppose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 content inspired in large part by this rather fantastic gif  
> 
> 
> Thanks for all of your kudos and comments! I truly look forward to reading them and am glad that people are enjoying the story. I'll try to keep updating every couple of days or so, but please, if you've got a moment, let me know what you think :)


	4. Tested

Not only do you lower the volume on your phone, but you remove one of your earbuds and let it dangle alongside your face. It bounces with each stride you take, skimming the top of your shoulder, when you ask Sam to repeat himself once more. 

“You and Banner. You’re both doctors, and you both have some anger issues to resolve. I don’t see what the problem is.”

You look over at him, your face coated in utter disbelief, but he doesn’t see you. Instead, Nat’s resting glare holds his full attention. You wipe the sweat off your brow and smile. 

“What?” he asks, addressing no one in particular. “What is wrong with that suggestion? This isn’t a you-and-Banner thing, is it?”

“No, it’s a doctor-and-patient thing,” you interrupt. “As in it’s prohibited.” Nat thanks you quietly with her eyes. You look over at Sam, who is still trying to talk you into pursuing Banner, and you manage to chime in at the right places. However, your mind can’t help but drift back. _Prohibited_. The thought lingers, thick, damp, and heavy, like heat rising from the sidewalk after a summer downpour. You choose to concentrate on the sound of your feet as they hit the ground, and the steady thumps temporarily stave off your active brain. 

Your watch beeps, indicating that you’ve hit the 4-mile marker, and you downgrade your run to a jog, as do Nat and Sam. You round the corner, and your slowing jog devolves into a brisk walk, stopping once you’ve crossed the starting line. Your heart knocks loudly, albeit evenly, against your chest, and a satisfying ache spreads through your calves. 

“Guys, don’t worry about me. Please, by all means,” you point further up the track, “continue with your work out.” 

Nat removes her hair tie, sending a flood of wavy tendrils down her neck. “We’re going to dismantle a piece of Hydra later today; that’ll compete our cardio,” she says with a straight face. 

“Cap!” Sam’s voice reverberates throughout the gym and bounces up into the rafters. Your eyes shift away from Nat and towards the entrance, just in time to see the heavy door shut behind Steve. He casually waves, headed for the three of you. Your eyes appraise his Adonis-like body, pausing at the contours of his chest then at the swell of his biceps, literally bursting at his shirt’s seams. You ignore the fact that your mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and you force yourself to regain composure. 

“I thought super-soldiers and the Hulk don’t work out before missions,” you declare as Steve comes to a full stop in front of you. 

“A little sweat never hurt anyone,” he replies with a shrug of his broad shoulders. 

“He couldn’t sleep,” adds Sam, bending down to tie his shoe. Steve glances at him quizzically. “It’s your default setting; you work out when you can’t sleep.” A look of amused realization passes across Steve’s face, and he nods his agreement. 

Nat steps off the track, allowing a pack of new recruits to charge past. “A lot on your mind?” 

“No,” Steve’s eyes flash towards you, “just one thing I was working over.” 

Wishing for a distraction, you undo your watch and rub the red outline its left on your wrist. You loop the band through one of your shirt’s straps, fastening it into place. You look up to see Nat and Sam staring in your direction.

“What? Sorry, I must’ve missed that.” 

“Did you want to lift before we head out?” asks Nat, tying her hair back up. 

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll probably just do a little core work then call it a day.”

“I’ll join you,” Steve says nonchalantly. 

Sam and Nat make their way towards the weight room while you and Steve walk to the far corner, headed for the rows and rows of fitness mats, stacked one on top the other. Every so often, the back of your hand bumps into his palm, and there’s something inside you that hums each time his skin touches yours. 

“To be completely honest,” you check to make sure Sam and Nat are out of earshot, “I think you’re all set on your core work.” You turn your head towards him, and a slight smile rises at the corners of your mouth. 

“Is that so?” 

You smile widens, verging on playful. “Well, that view was quiet enlightening.”

You grab a mat, toss it onto the floor, and lower yourself down. Steve kneels on its front half and presses his hands onto your sneakers, his thumbs resting lightly on your ankles. You look at him, baffled.

“Just trying to keep you honest,” he explains. 

You crunch up towards him. “I’m not the one with complete disregard for laws.”

“But dissent is patriotic.” 

Your shoulder blades skim the top of the mat before you work your way up again. “That describes your entire aesthetic.” 

Each time you come up, Steve’s eyes tiptoe around your hips, your stomach, and your neckline. You count your sit-ups in your limited, barely proficient French. You remind yourself to write your nana a thank-you card. You try to concentrate on anyone, anything, but Steve. Your body folds into itself one final time, and suddenly, Steve’s striking face is inches from yours, close enough for you to notice the start of his five o’clock shadow. He bends down lower so only you can hear him. 

“The view is better in person,” Steve murmurs. A shiver runs down your spine, and you aren’t sure whether it’s the drop of your body temperature post-work out or the way Steve’s breath feels against your ear. He lifts his hands off of your cross trainers and helps you stand.

“But,” you counter, feeling emboldened, “the view’s even better when it’s unobstructed.” You lift the hem of your shirt and pull it up to wipe the streaks of sweat that are dripping from your forehead, giving Steve an extended glimpse at your midsection. You take your time then finally let go, and the fabric glides back into place. When you make eye contact with Steve, he raises his eyebrows, and his mouth forms a closed, roguish smile. Surprise is scattered across his features. You laugh thoroughly, pleased with the knowledge that you can shake Steve Rogers’ resolve. 

As your laugh starts to fade, your brain latches onto the growing quiet, providing you with time to think. In spite of your body telling it otherwise, your mind refuses to be ignored, _Prohibited. Prohibited. Prohibited._ Career over, license revoked. The time you’d spent working through endless med school rotations, being berated by attending physicians, and submitting proposals and grants would be worthless. And for what actually? For some whirlwind fun and a story you’d recount to your friends 10 years from now? For a relationship so precarious that it could disintegrate at a moment’s notice? You aren’t even sure what this is, let alone what it’s worth. Putting your achievements on the table, up to be gambled, would be reckless. 

“What’s on your mind?” Steve’s voice breaks your reverie, and his eyes search your face for a clue of where you’d retreated in that moment. 

“I like a good flirtation, but c’mon. You’re my patient. We shouldn’t…” you stop and take a breath before completing your thought. “We should stick to our boundaries, right?”

The intensity of Steve’s expression pierces your fragile exterior, slicing through every excuse your brain is trying to toss your way. “That’s fine with me. But is that what you want?” 

“It’s not about what I want,” you argue. “It’s more about what I stand to lose.”

“You said that when you want something, nothing gets in your way. If don’t want me,” Steve places a hand on your cheek, the other on the length of your neck, and your pulse quickens at the intimacy of his touch. “Please tell me.”

You open your mouth, unsure of your answer, when Steve’s phone buzzes. He hesitates for a moment, then picks up, his eyes still immersed in yours. You hear Banner on the other line, and you expect to feel relief, but come up empty. Steve looks at you once more before turning away to continue the conversation. You watch his figure retreat as he heads back towards the track. And, for a reason that you cannot process, you are filled with a vague sense of uneasiness, like you’d grabbed hold of a ledge only to let your fingers slip further. 

* * *

Your earpiece crackles to life, and you adjust its frequency while standing up from your desk. You push in the chair, and the buzzing static quickly shifts into a distinct voice.

“Caucasion male, appears to be in his late 20s, early 30s, sustained two gunshot wounds to the chest cavity,” states the trauma nurse. You leave the makeshift on-call room and walk briskly down the corridor. 

“Has either bullet punctured any vital organs?”

“It has not.” 

“Lucky for him, and for us,” you state as you push open the double doors leading to the washroom. “Name of patient by chance?”

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.” 

“Got it. Are we all prepped for him?”

You listen to the flurry of answers and absorb the information. You collaborate on an action plan with your team and adjust the handles for the cold and hot water. You let the water run, dipping your fingers in every few seconds to check it, until reaching its ideal temperature. You grab the brand-new brush from the edge of the sink and squirt the emerald-colored soap over its bristles. The sharp, medicinal aroma wafts through the air, but you barely notice it. You work the brush on top, over, and between each of your fingers, counting the number of times you’ve run it across the different pathways of skin. You repeat the process, first up your left arm and past your elbow, then following the same route for your right, counting all the same. This has become more than a requirement for you, but a ritual of sorts; it’s time to collect your thoughts and to breathe. You lower your hands, then arms, back under the warm water, and you nod a silent ‘thank you’ to the nurse who assists you with your gown, gloves, and surgical mask. 

You enter the operating room and greet the rest of the nurses who are on-call. You know quite a few of them, mostly from other active duties you’ve joined, and as you wait, you ask them questions about their kids, laughing when they relay their ongoing trials of parenthood. They are a good team to have, both in the O.R. and out, and you feel grateful for them being here. 

A bustle of activity interrupts the discussion, soft at first, then growing louder at each turn. You hear the sound of feet shuffling across the floor, voices lobbying back and forth, and like clockwork, a surge of prickly adrenaline floods your veins. 

“Let’s do some work.”

* * *

You’re about to open the door, but pause, opting instead to eavesdrop on the conversation unfolding inside. 

“You were in…a bush?”

“You’re making it sound stupid.”

“I have a question: but _why_ were you in the bush?”

“Like I said, I’d been spotted, that asshole ordered me not to fight, so I had no choice but to find cover.”

“In…a bush.”

You can’t hide your smile as you walk into the room, hands in your coat pockets, and turn towards Bucky. You’re not sure whether you’re more surprised to see him in such good spirits or to see his long hair pulled back into a high, unkempt bun. “G’morning Sergeant Barnes. How are you feeling?”

He grins at you, and it’s amazing how this one act transforms his face from terrifying to terribly cute.  
“Not bad. I’ve been worse off.” 

“I think this is an improvement,” says Nat. She gets up from her chair and snags the orange on Bucky’s tray, which she begins to peel. 

Bruce looks away from the EKG monitor, glancing between you and Bucky. “So is he going to make the trip home with us tomorrow?” he asks. 

“Yes, and that’s partially why I’m here,” you begin, moving yourself from the foot of the bed to its side. “I wanted to let you know that while you were under, we did open up your shoulder. There was an infection at the sight of incision, most likely a delayed onset from your original procedure…”

“A final ‘fuck you’ from Zola,” Natasha quips, handing the peeled orange off to Bucky. 

“We drained the fluid that had been building up and treated the infection. We’re going give you a course of antibiotics through your IV, but you’ll continue with something comparable in pill form when we’re home,” you finish as Bruce takes the prescription from you. 

Bucky drops his head to one side. “Thank you,” he says with sincerity. 

“You’re welcome,” you return. You glance at the empty armchair in the room. “Rogers and Wilson didn’t join you all?”

“They’re milling about somewhere,” answers Bucky between bites. 

You remind Bruce to fill Bucky’s prescription and excuse yourself from the room. You open the door to the stairwell and begin your ascent to the residence floor. You yawn audibly and attempt to blink the fatigue out of your eyes. The amount of sleep you’ve gotten on this trip has been paltry at best, and you look at your watch, calculating how much time you can rest before your next set of rounds, when you almost collide into Sam. 

“Doc,” he greets you, drawing out your title. 

“Sam,” you reply, matching his level of enthusiasm. 

Sam claps you on the shoulder with a little too much gusto, but you let it slide. “What you did for Barnes was outstanding.”

You shrug; excessive praise makes you uncomfortable. “Thank you, but it’s just my job. Don’t be mad at me, but I thought you’d be a little less….” you scroll through your mental thesaurus for the exact word, “thrilled about Barnes’ recovery.”

“Are you kidding? I need him to live. If something happens to him, then I’m going to have to care for Steve when he’s 200.”

“I don’t trust you to take care of me now.” 

Your eyes dart upward at the sound of that distinguishable voice, and you see a pair of dark, fitted jeans descending the set of stairs just above you. You lock eyes with Steve once he gets to the landing, and you discretely wipe your palms against your scrubs as each step brings him closer to you. 

Sam waves off Steve’s insult and turns to face him. “I was just telling Doc that we appreciate her. Tell her, Steve.”

“I’m so grateful I could kiss her.” _Fuck let me die here right now._.

“Me too, but I won’t,” Sam clarifies, putting his hands up in innocence. Sam continues down the stairs, and you and Steve stand there, waiting until you hear the definitive click of the door shutting. 

Steve takes a few steps towards you. “I mean it, you know. I could kiss you.”

Your hand unconsciously grips the railing in an effort to steady yourself. “I don’t want to be kissed for doing my job,” you reply. 

Steve continues with his descent, and you feel his arm graze yours as he fails to walk around you. Your eyes follow him, and as Steve stops on the step just below, he turns his head, his eyes meeting yours. 

“What if,” he glances down for a second before speaking, “I want to kiss you because it’s only thing I could think about these past few days?”

The height of the step gives you no advantage but instead, for the first time, brings you face to face with Steve. His inviting eyes move down to your neck and to your clavicle, and your breath hastens under his stare, your chest rising and falling in small crests.

“Let me ask you a question first. Did you tell Bucky not to fight?”

“Just following doctor’s orders,” whispers Steve. 

At this, you rest your hands on Steve’s cheeks, framing his flawless face, and your lips brush lightly against his. You savor the feeling of his mouth, soft, relenting, and yet commanding, and your fingers caress the dark, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. You come up for a breath only to be pulled under again by Steve, drowning under the feeling of his hand as it roams your waist and the scent of his shirt, a mix of detergent and sweat. An audible gasp escapes your lips as Steve presses his body gently into yours, and as you give in, falling deeper with each kiss, the part of you that’s made of earth and specks of dust and star particles awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, anyone else need a stiff drink? As always, I cannot thank you enough for the kudos and kind/hilarious comments. Y'all make my day. My parting gift to you is this gif.  
> 


	5. Satisfied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my humble opinion, Ed Sheeran's "Make It Rain" is, by far and away, the best song to add to your sex playlist. Needless to say, I've listened to it on repeat many times these past few days while writing, and I'm going to need a cold shower now. If you want to hear it for yourself, head on over to iTunes, Spotify, YouTube, or whatever streaming service you use to get your music. Trust me-- it's worth it. 
> 
> That being said, there is sex in this chapter. You've been duly warned.

6 days. Or to be more specific, it has been 6 days, 5 nights, 11 hours, and, give or take, 15 minutes since you’ve seen Steve. That’s not to say you aren’t working (you are) or that he has been deployed on another mission (he hasn’t). Once you arrived home, you made a promise to return to your normal life. You chalk up the kiss to a perfect storm of exhaustion, adrenaline, and hormones, and remind yourself that really, it’s simple—choosing Steve Rogers will send your life into a devastating tailspin. 

The fact of the matter is that you are _avoiding_ Steve Rogers. He passes you in the hallway; you remember to reply to the last message in a group text. He slides into the seat next to you in a meeting; you shuffle past your colleagues, moving down a row to plug your laptop into an outlet. But, no matter how many times you try to stuff this kiss into the dusty caverns of your mind, your body unearths it. You will be talking on the phone or out to dinner with friends when the taste of his mouth, the essence of ocean air, sunscreen, and warmth, renders you speechless. Despite your attempts to extinguish this memory, you know that it is only a matter of time until that kiss claims you, and what then?

As your mind spins these frenzied tapestries, you snap the end of the thread and review your handy work. You squint your eyes to inspect each interval of stitched skin and its meticulous binding. It meets your approval. 

“How long are you going to avoid me?” Steve asks, his voice low and calm. He looks around the expansive training room and gives a quick wave to his teammates as they head for the showers. 

Your eyes remained glued to the suture, just under Steve’s jaw. “I’m not avoiding you.” 

“Tell the truth.” 

You stand, place the needle and spool of thread back in its case, and shut the lid closed with a snap. You turn towards Steve, who in that time has gone from seated to standing, and after days of evasion, you look up and face him, thereby unraveling yards of half-truths you’ve been weaving. 

You press your lips together. “What happened was a mistake…”

“That kiss was fucking fantastic.” His quiet, even-keeled tone only serves to amplify his assertion. “I know it, and you know it…” Steve cuts himself off, and the weight of his stare is no longer on you. You follow his eye line to the opposite wall and see an agent, freckled, strawberry-blonde, and wet behind the ears, heading your way. 

“Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts need to speak with you.” To your surprise, the agent isn’t looking at Steve but at you.

“I’ll be right there,” you assure him. “They’re in the main conference room?”

The agent, who can’t be more than twenty-two, nods eagerly. You and Steve stand there, waiting to resume your tête-à-tête, and it takes you a second to realize that this well-meaning newbie is to escort you there. You grab your sweater, and Steve hands over your bag, moving a hair closer and further out of earshot of your new companion. You glance at the agent, who, to your relief, is completely oblivious. 

“To be continued,” Steve promises, and the corners of his mouth pull back into a smirk. 

You sneak Steve a knowing look and nod before following the agent out of the building. 

* * *

“Your name is on Barnes’ medical clearance from his last mission.” Tony directs your attention to a hologram of the form, hovering above the rich, mahogany table, where your signature has been highlighted.

“Yes, and?” 

“While abroad, you also operated on his shoulder, diagnosed him with an infection, then prescribed him antibiotics, correct?” The way Tony poses these statements as questions is irksome, but you let that go. Instead, you focus on your gut instinct, which tells you to prepare for the trap that’s laying in wait. 

“Yes.” You knit your brows in a mix of confusion and distrust. “Mr. Stark, do you mind telling me what this is about?”

“I want to know,” Tony rises from the table, tucks his hands into his pockets, “why you signed off on his medical clearance when Barnes showed symptoms of an infection prior to departure.”

You clear your throat and sit up further in the high-backed chair. “When I completed Sergeant Barnes’ physical, he didn’t demonstrate any symptoms of a staff infection or sepsis. He only provided me with anecdotal information regarding his shoulder pain, and you know as well as I do that shoulder pain alone could be a number of things, things most likely innocuous.”

Tony nods, and whether it’s sympathetic or not, you’re unsure. “But at the end of the day, when you sign that form, your signature is a guarantee that every Avenger on that mission is in peak health. Barnes was not, and if he, or any Avenger were to die because of your neglect, well, you’d be in for a world of trouble.”

Frustration rises in your body, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, and you squeeze the arms of the chair to temper it. 

“Tony is not the most diplomatic person,” Pepper says, easing the tension as she closes the hologram. “We’re not trying to make any accusations here. I wouldn’t have hired you if I wasn’t confident that you were the best candidate for the job. We just want to communicate our expectations with 100% clarity.”

“Thank you,” you manage to say. “Anything else?”

Tony walks around the conference table, stopping in front of an impressive bookcase. “Yes,” he pauses to read some of the titles then turns to look at you. “For the next three months, your active duty on-calls will be carefully monitored, and all medical clearance forms with your signature will require the signature of another physician employed at this facility.”

“But that means my colleagues will have to double their workload in order to conduct all those extra physicals,” you protest. “That’s not fair to them.”

Pepper looks at you with the utmost sympathy, making it difficult to direct your frustration at her. “We’re really sorry. You understand that we have to prioritize our agents’ health above all else.”

“What a load of shit. You’ve got to be kidding…” You whip around to see Steve, perched in the doorway, arms crossed over the width of his chest. How long had he been there?

“Rogers,” Tony warns, “this has nothing to do with you.”

A look of incredulity passes over Steve’s face, and without hesitation, you are standing in front of him, a literal shield. You would find the irony amusing if you weren’t bristling with anger right now. 

“I don’t need saving. I can handle this myself.” You stare up at Steve, his features boasting a wealth of emotion. “If there’s something you need to discuss with me, wait outside.” 

Steve looks between you and Tony then nods hesitantly before leaving. You run your hand over the side of your face in exasperation and in need of a drink. You sign a few papers agreeing to your adjusted terms of contract and take your exit. Steve is leaning against a pillar, hands resting on the waistband of his jeans, and despite his appearance, his face is anything but relaxed. You hold his stare then walk straight past him into the hallway. 

In two strides, Steve catches up to you. “What was that about?” His voice is drenched with concern, and you are too tired to deal with this right now. 

“Nothing,” you reply, shaking your head. You arrive at the elevator and reach for the button, but Steve grabs your arm, stopping you. 

“Are they punishing you for what happened to Bucky?”

You pull your arm away and press the ‘down’ button defiantly. “No, not in so many words.” You inwardly cringe at how unconvincing you sound, even to yourself. 

“C’mon,” Steve urges, “we already did this today. You’re still not going to be honest with me?”

The chime announces the lift’s arrival, and you step through the open doors with Steve following you into the carriage. 

“Steve, what is there to say? I cleared Bucky, I shouldn’t have, and there are consequences.” You hit ‘G’ on the labeled panel, and the doors shut behind you. You feel the swift movement under your feet come to a sudden halt as Steve presses the ‘stop’ button. 

You look over at him, your mouth opens to speak, but he beats you to it. He takes a step closer to you. “Why didn’t you disclose the fact that I asked you to sign Bucky’s form?”

Another step then one more. Steve stands in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat emanating from his towering body. He rests his hand against your neck and tilts your face up to look at him, and it is dangerous how you bloom under his touch. 

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Why didn’t you tell them it was me?”

Steve’s free hand holds the inward curve of your waist, and his thumb working its way up, then down, erases any excuses that your brain tries to assemble. 

“Because I care about what happens to you,” you confess, and the words spill out of you like water out of a broken dam. You stop, glance at the floor, then up at Steve, your eyes shining as they meet his. “Because I choose you.” You stroke his cheek with your fingertips, outlining his granite jawline. “I want you.”

Something flickers in the depths of Steve’s eyes, and wordlessly, he removes your hand from his cheek, opting to press his lips to your palm, the inside of your wrist, until guiding your arm so it drapes over his neck. You are pressed flush against Steve’s powerful body, and the moment he kisses you, a slow warmth flows through your limbs, leaving your skin alight and flushed. Steve kisses you slowly, reacquainting himself with the shape of your lips, the feel of them against his, between his, and your breathing quickens like there’s not enough air in this lift. As the kiss deepens, it takes on a life of its own, and you brace yourself against his broad chest. You let your fingers navigate its valleys and contours, and as Steve shifts forward, his lips never leaving yours, you retreat until the small of your back collides with the cold, metal wall. A small gasp escapes you, and Steve pulls away. His vibrant eyes drink in your every feature, making you feel vulnerable and desired. 

“Hands down,” he says with quiet authority. 

You do as you are told and place your arms at your sides. He entwines his agile fingers with yours, and presses yours hands back until they are pinned against the wall.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs.

You stare into his blue eyes, now tinged a subtle gray. “Is that the best you can do, Cap?” you tease. 

Steve flashes you a wicked half-smile and ups the pressure, enough to make it difficult for you to move, enough to send a surge of anticipation up your spine, and his lips roam over your neck, just under your jaw. Steve moves downward, taking his time, as if he’s got lifetimes to spare, and with each kiss, your chest rises and falls in short, shallow breaths. His mouth meanders along your clavicle, then stops at the base of your throat, grazing the soft flesh with his teeth. Without thinking, you inhale sharply and push your hands against Steve’s only to be met with unyielding resistance. 

Steve’s eyes flutter open, and a sly smile crosses his flawless face as he untangles his fingers from yours. He doesn’t give you a second to react because his mouth devours you, his hands framing each side of your face. His thick hard-on presses into your inner thigh, and you can’t help but wonder how Steve will feel inside you, how hard you will come underneath him, and your hips grind upward at the sheer thought. Steve lets out a groan before his tongue continues to taste you, as if he means to know every part of you. His hands trace your shoulder blades, map the dips and ridges of your back, and leave behind a trail of brushfire, untamed and yet ready to be consumed. 

You don’t know whether you want him to stop or to go faster, only that you want more, more of whatever this is, and you let out a whine of protest when Steve eases back. He leans his forehead against yours, and his slightly labored breaths pierce the sound of silence. While holding you with one hand, he glides the other down your side, over your ribs, hugging every curve until stopping at the hem of your skirt. Steve stares into you, pausing, and you move your hand over his, urging him forward. He guides the fabric up, bunching it in his hand, until it collects at your waist. You feel the cool air on your ass, exposed aside from your thong, and carefully, Steve unfolds you, parts you. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your forehead before slipping in one, then two fingers, and you emit a throaty sigh. He starts to circle your clit with his thumb, all the meanwhile gazing into your darkened eyes, and you work your bottom lip between your teeth. Steve continues to explore you, teasing out what makes you whimper and what makes you twist against him. 

“Do you like that?” he whispers, manipulating his fingers just so.

“Yes,” you manage breathlessly. 

“Do you want me to keep doing that?”

You nod your head vigorously as you feel your body hum under his touch. At this, his hands slow, and Steve releases you from his grasp. 

“Asshole,” you whisper. 

Steve laughs before leaning down to kiss you, and you fumble blindly with his belt and zipper until they give way. You hastily lower his jeans, his briefs, down to the top of his solid thighs, and when you look at Steve, his cock is exactly as you’ve imagined--hard, substantial, and perfect. Steve starts at the feel of your hand, and he groans into your mouth. Your move your hand up then down his shaft, working him at a pace that is both leisurely and maddening. Every now and then, you press your palm to the head of his cock, and to watch Steve’s face contort into a recess of pleasure, instills you with wanton desire. 

Steve brushes your hair off to the side and leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. “I’m going to fuck you.”

An ache that’s been building inside you, coursing through your veins, makes it impossible for you to do anything but nod ‘yes.’ 

Steve hikes your leg up, running his hand along the underside of your thigh, then hooks your knee onto his hip. He slides himself into your entrance, inch by inch, your body stretching to accommodate him, until he is fully inside you. You bury your face into his shoulder, groaning at the sensation of how complete this man makes you feel. Steve’s thrusts are slow, deep, and fill every crevice upon his re-entrance. With every movement, your breath catches in your throat, quietly at first, then with a desperation that matches the intensity etched on his face. Steve digs his fingers into your hips, and although you hazily suspect there will be bruises there tomorrow, that is the furthest thing from your mind, your mental prowess focused only on how with each stroke, he hits something in you that makes you see stars. 

“Steve,” you breathe. 

Hearing the sound of his name leave your lips, he lifts your leg higher, hits you deeper, presses you tighter into him. You cannot control the sighs that are escaping from your mouth, and you feel yourself approaching the edge, welcoming it, with each thrust. You brace yourself against him and let out a guttural moan as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. Your body clenches and unclenches around Steve, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder to keep from crying out. He watches you unravel under him, and with this, there is a renewed sense of urgency, a relentlessness that drives Steve forward. You brush away a dark, blonde tendril that falls into his eyes, your fingertips grazing his glistening skin, and it is not long before he loses himself in you with a shudder. 

You both stand there for a minute as your breathing slows. You limbs fall from him, he adjusts himself, and there is a satisfying ache running from your thigh up to your chest, a feeling of exertion mingled with relief. Steve runs his fingers through your tousled hair, moving it aside so he can see your face, and he caresses your cheek lightly with the back of your hand. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” you ask, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

Steve grins broadly, his eyes glimmering under the lights. “Reminding you why you want me.” 

Steve kisses you, and you reciprocate, smiling and spent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments. Being a writing hack (this definitely is not my day job) is all the more fun when you get to be a part of such a supportive and encouraging community. I'd love to hear what you think, about this chapter, about the story, about the characters, any predictions you may have. Ya'll are the greatest!
> 
>  


	6. Stripped

“Halloweekend,” you repeat as you switch off your desktop monitor. “You know, it’s the weekend before or after Halloween where people dress up and throw parties.”

“What are you dressing up as?” Steve grabs your coat off the hanger and holds it out for you; first your left arm, then your right until hoisting the rest of the lined material over your shoulders. 

“The question is,” you spin around to face him, “what are _you_ going to dress up as?” 

Steve grabs each side of your tweed belt, pulling you closer, causing you to gasp delightfully in surprise. His long arms encircle your waist as he considers the question. 

“I think I’m more concerned about dressing you down,” Steve replies, a Cheshire grin plastered across his face. “The elevator was a bit of a tease.” 

An inadvertent smile plays along your lips at the mention of your tryst. In the two days since, it’s been difficult to see Steve, let alone digest what happened between you and discuss where you both stand. New York in the fall ushers in a lot of your favorite things: fitted blazers paired with scarves, the smell of leaves burning, and perfectly-made apple cider doughnuts, but administering flu shots to the entirety of the Avengers staff never makes the cut. Between that and the usual injuries you treat, the on-site infirmary has been absolute bedlam. 

“Focus, Rogers.” You smooth the front of his thick, navy sweater, using it as an excuse to run your hands over his chest. “Picking the right costume means that we can be out together, and no one will bat an eye. No reporters trailing you. No sneaking around…”

“The perfect cover,” finishes Steve. He leans down to kiss you, and before you can meet his lips, an idea strikes. 

“Wear your uniform,” you blurt out. “I like a man in uniform.”

* * *

You stand on the train platform and spot him from a distance. You can’t yet make out his defining features, but you are certain it’s him; his walk is his tell. It’s not a strut (far from it), but it’s an air of ease Steve projects when moving. He is a Labrador after a successful day spent hunting: long strides, head tilted at just the right angle, and relaxed confidence. It’s not until he’s moving through the turnstile that the feeling of surprise settles in. 

“When I said wear your uniform, this is not what I meant.” 

Steve chuckles as you eye him up and down, taking in the tailored fit of his taupe jacket, badges pinned neatly to the lapels, and pressed pants to match. He is the epitome of WWII dapper, and to be honest, you knees feel a touch weak when you look at him. 

“I get to be Cap every day,” he says, removing his aviators. “I think I’ve earned one day where I can be myself.” 

“1940s dreamboat?”

“Or, you know, integral member of the Strategic Scientific Reserve,” corrects Steve as he tucks his mirrored glasses into the front of his shirt. His eyes travel the length of you, peering at you from the front then the back, staying just a second too long in the back. “And let me guess: sexy Rosie the Riveter?”

“Just Rosie the Riveter,” you clarify, fixing your cherry red bandana, as you sigh in mock annoyance. 

The platform lights up, indicating the arrival of the train, and the station teems with the muffled sound of the announcer and the shuffling of anxious passengers. You both step back from the edge, and Steve casually wraps his arm around your shoulder. 

“I wasn’t trying to be flippant,” he apologizes, leaning in close to combat the cacophony. “But you have to understand that whatever you dress up as, doctor, Ghostbuster, Rosie the Riveter, hell, even that puppet trash can monster, ‘sexy’ describes you.”

The train arrives, and the doors slide open as you look up at him. “So, you know who the Ghostbusters are, but ‘Oscar the Grouch’ is too far of a stretch for you?” Steve gives you a playful shove before boarding the car. 

The ride into the city is usually tedious and long, requiring multiple transfers and close connections. You’ve done it several times since moving, and each ride reminds you of all the reasons you had for leaving Manhattan in the first place. However, like the cityscape beyond your window, the commute tonight breezes by. You and Steve pinpoint what makes the ultimate New York bagel; during the rare moment when you have the car to yourselves, you compete to see who can remain upright without stumbling forward (he wins by a landslide); and once you disembark from the train, he grabs your hand, his fingers laced with yours, and leads you through the bustling crowds towards the street level above. 

“So whose party are we going to?” Steve asks, glancing over at you, as you step around a group of thirty-somethings dressed as zombies from The Walking Dead. 

“Nina, a friend from college. She works over at Mount Sinai; she’s a pathologist.”

A couple of children clad in Hawkeye and Black Widow costumes give Steve a long, knowing stare. Their eyes track him across the street, which Steve sees out of his peripheral vision. He nods and waves at them discretely before their parents usher them along. “Anything else I need to know?” 

“Not much,” you shrug. “Her husband’s name is Theo, and he has one of those jobs where you’re not quite sure what he does, but he makes a ton of money, so it doesn’t really matter. And other people I know will be there.”

“Other friends from college?”

“That, and med school, and just running in the same circles for a few years,” you answer. “Oh, and one more thing: you can’t be you.”

Steve stops mid-stroll and arches an eyebrow in your direction, his face a blend of confusion and disbelief. “Run that by me again,” he requests. 

“When we walk in, I can’t be like, ‘hello friends of mine, this is Steve Rogers, we’re kind of fucking, and here’s some wine I brought.’ “

Steve doubles over in laughter, eyes closed, and the giddy sound makes you feel weirdly accomplished. “Alright, alright, so who am I?” he asks once you’ve resumed walking. 

“Your middle name is Grant, isn’t it?”

“That it is,” replies Steve, nodding. It’s quiet for a stretch and as you stroll down the last block, you can see the pensive lines running across Steve’s forehead, and you wonder what he’s mulling over in that exquisite mind of his. 

“We’re kind of fucking?”

Having broken the silence, Steve turns towards you and come to a stop in front of a large brownstone. It is something out of a movie set: jet black, wrought-iron railings leading up to the front stoop, tendrils of ivy creeping up the tastefully faded brick, and the glow of lights welcoming you from each window. 

“I mean, are we? We haven’t really had the time to hash any of that out. But,” you stop to loop your arm through his, “I like you, Steve Rogers.”

“It’s Grant,” he deadpans as he walks you up the steps. 

* * *

At the sound of your name, you look up to see Nina, a long, cashmere sweater wrapped around her Sansa Stark-inspired dress, beckoning you to join her on the deck. You’ve known Nina for years, even lived with her for a bout in college, and one thing you know for certain is that Nina, a New Yorker by circumstance only, despises the cold. She knows this, you know this, and more importantly, she knows that you know this. You look over at Steve, engulfed in a debate about the upcoming Senate seat race, and he squeezes your thigh, assuring you that he is just fine on his own. 

Grabbing your glass of wine, you get up and shuffle past a police officer, a monk, and a realistic-looking ninja before making your way towards the double French doors. You’ve barely crossed the threshold when Nina grabs your arm and forcibly seats you at her outdoor table. 

“How’d you meet Grant?” she asks. 

“Tinder.”

“That man is NOT on Tinder,” interjects Liz, Nina’s younger sister, glancing at you knowingly. You take a sip of your Cabernet and give her a coy, ambiguous smile. 

Nina gestures wildly in an effort to refocus the conversation, sending her Kate Spade bangles jingling, then puts her hands down on the table to grab your attention. “Are you guys dating? Like, exclusively?”

You shrug. “I don’t know.” You roll down the sleeves on your button-down, noting the drop in temperature. “We haven’t discussed that yet.”

“What does he do?”

“He works for a security firm,” you answer, impressed by your own acuity. 

“Are you guys talking about Grant?” Your friend Cece peeks her head out the door, tiptoes across the redwood flooring, then takes a seat across from you. “Is he good in bed? Please say ‘no’ so I can still be your friend.”

You flashback to the memory of your shoulders pressed up against the wall, your leg clutched tightly around Steve’s waist. You grin. “In bed? I honestly can’t answer that.” 

“Listen, men like that,” Liz points at Steve through the glass panes, “do not exist in real life. It’s just a bunch of fuck boys, trolls, and idiots out there. So you better lock that shit down.” 

You stand and tip back your glass, finishing the last sip. “I appreciate the advice, ladies, but I think I’m going to figure this out on my own.”

“If you let your stubborn streak ruin this, I will take him off your hands,” Nina threatens, looking over her shoulder at you. 

“You’re married,” you remind her, failing to conceal your smile. You make your way back inside and scan the room for any sight of Steve. Before you can locate him, your ears perk at the conversation unfolding near the fireplace. 

“See, this is the thing about the Avengers--they’re not super heroes. They’re a bunch of vigilantes….”

He made a lazy attempt to dress as a Jedi, but nevertheless, you recognize the man speaking as Mike something or other. He went to college with you and Nina, but you wouldn’t call him a friend. He was more of an acquaintance than anything else. He and Theo ran with the same crowd of business majors, and he’d occasionally tag along on a night out. You don’t remember much about him, except that after a few drinks, he’d brag about being from the wealthiest part of Connecticut or would question the answers you’d volunteer on trivia nights. And in the time since you’d all graduated and made careers for yourselves, it seems as if Mike has stayed the same: he is still an asshole. 

“…Why doesn’t anyone talk about how they destroyed half of Manhattan? I’m still paying for all that damage with my taxes…” he complains, setting his beer on the fireplace ledge. 

You walk over to the bar and pour yourself another glass, this time an oaky Merlot. You are engrossed and mildly amused by his opinionated rant, so much so that when you feel someone lean against your shoulder, you are startled to see that it is Steve. You exchange a look with him, one that speaks volumes, and he places his pointer finger over his mouth before nodding in Mike’s direction. You and Steve resume eavesdropping. 

“…And women just fall all over themselves when they see Thor…” says Mike, rolling his eyes dramatically. A couple of men surrounding him nod their heads, and you hope that they’re merely entertaining his tipsy outburst rather than agreeing with this bullshit.

“It sets unrealistic expectations for the rest of us men,” he continues. “I mean, Thor’s a literal god, Stark’s a playboy billionaire; how can we actually live up to that? And take Captain America, for instance, he’s the worst of the bunch…” Steve snickers, and you elbow him in the ribs so you can listen. “He skipped leg day and protein-heavy meals in favor of taking steroids, and people call him a hero. I can take some human growth hormones, and it’d be the same thing.”

“Careful,” Theo warns, tilting his head towards you, “she works for the Avengers.” A dozen pairs of eyes shift in your direction, and the sudden bombardment of stares throws you off balance. 

Mike peers at you from across the room, and a look of relief and recognition crosses his face. “Excellent, alright, you know Captain America. Tell us, in your expert opinion, Captain America: home grown hero or an overrated hack?”

There’s a small part of you that’s tempted to excuse yourself to the bathroom or to duck into the kitchen for some charcuterie. Public speaking doesn’t bother you, but there have been a few times in the past where your mouth has gotten you into trouble, especially after having a few drinks. But, on the other hand, you realize it’s not every day that you get to speak your mind in front of a willing audience, and that larger part of you wins every time. 

“Well, I used to think Captain America was a bit entitled, but I can be a judgmental person,” you concede as you set your glass down on the counter. “But, after getting to know him, I realized I was wrong. Captain Rogers is a good man,” you glance over at Steve and hold his gaze before continuing, “The best actually.”

“Okay, but…”

“No, no, I’m still talking.” You pause as Mike shifts uncomfortably on the spot. “And Captain Rogers was a good man before he took the serum, and that’s why people like him, not because of his strength or handsomeness. So, in my expert opinion, Mike, if you’re this much of an asshole now, taking super soldier serum wouldn’t change the fact that people would still think you’re an asshole after.” 

A chattering of voices and widened eyes follow your statement, but all of that seems to fall away when Steve grabs your hand. You walk over to Nina, who is standing off to the side, mouth agape but delight twinkling in her eyes. You and Steve exchange goodbyes with her and a few of your friends before heading out into the crisp Autumn night. 

* * *

“I have a surprise for you,” you murmur, walking past Steve, who quietly shuts the door behind him. 

While he takes your coat, you remove your bandana along with a smattering of bobby pins from your updo and peruse the room. Right off the bat, the room _feels_ like Steve: clean, unpretentious, and masculine. Sepia-tinted photographs are framed and displayed throughout the open space, a large bookcase features an assortment of well-worn novels and historical biographies, and minimal but classic furniture round out the rest of his residence. 

Steve sidles up behind you, kissing you softly on the neck. “You are full of surprises tonight,” Steve murmurs. 

“Last one, I promise,” you say as you turn around, pressing your lips to his. 

You don’t give Steve time to reciprocate, but you take a step back so he can see you completely. It’s been hours since your last glass of wine, and the part of you that would require liquid courage to do this wishes you’d chosen something stronger to drink tonight. Instead, you reach your fingers to the top of your shirt, undoing each button carefully, reminding yourself to inhale and exhale. Eventually, you let it fall to the floor with a quiet clatter, and the early morning air sends a shiver down your bare arms. You look up at Steve whose hint of a smile encourages you to continue. Your jeans are the next piece of clothing to go. You slowly unzip the denim, and once you step out of your jeans, Steve’s steady breathing is the only sound that can be heard in the room. You can feel him basking in the sight of your body, its lines and curves, its muscles and softness, and you run your fingers through your hair, shaking out any loose tendrils. Steve bridges the distance separating you until he’s close enough for you to touch, to make out his long, dark lashes in the hazy light filtering in from the window. 

“You wanted to undress me, right?” you ask, looking up at him. You move your hair off your back and let it cascade down your collarbone, a silent invitation. 

Without a word, Steve reaches behind you and unclasps your bra, brushing each strap over the tops of your shoulders. The lacey material hits the floor, and Steve’s eyes wander down, over, and across the fullness of your breasts. His hands outline your waist, and as Steve moves his fingers onto your hips and slides your underwear down your thighs, your heart quickens. You stand there for a moment, and to be completely vulnerable in front of him is equal parts unnerving and welcoming. As if reading your mind, Steve reaches up and holds your face in his hands, his clear blue eyes shining intensely with warmth and want. 

“You are incredibly beautiful,” he whispers, running his thumb over your cheek. 

Steve kisses you deeply, and when he does, he holds you close to him as if afraid you’ll suddenly disappear. With every shift of your head, you lose yourself further into the sensation of his mouth against yours, the way your body fits into the canyons and valleys comprising his. You hastily manage to remove his jacket and tie, and soon enough, the rest of Steve’s clothing finds itself strewn about the floor. His body is the quintessence of man, muscles defined for work over vanity, and you want to commit to memory every line that curves and every line that intersects.

"Lie down,” Steve says, more of a request than a command. 

He hovers over you, all arms and chest and physique, and the coolness of the sheets serves as a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Steve. You tilt your head up and kiss him, softly, lazily. You gasp at the feeling of his mouth when he works his way down, leaving a winding path of kisses along the edge of your shoulders, across your breasts, and down your sternum. He stops just below your stomach and props your knees up, and at this, you unconsciously take a deep breath to calm your nerves. 

“You’re okay,” he assures you, kissing the top of your knee. “Do you trust me?” You look at Steve, and the way he gazes at you with such earnestness suddenly quiets any lingering concern. 

“Yes,” you reply, closing your eyes. 

Steve runs his hand along the inside of your thigh, then back down, continuing this pattern with his mouth once he sees your brow relax. The feeling of his lips against your sensitive skin stokes the ache between your legs, and you flinch in pleasure when he finds your clit, creating small circles with his tongue. Steve moves leisurely, taking the time to taste you, stopping occasionally to tease the innermost part of you, alternating between his tongue and his hand. The slow burn, beginning the moment you saw Steve in his aviators, builds gradually, and you grip the sheets when his fingers meet your g-spot. With his other hand, Steve presses down on your writhing hip, holding you in place, as he brings you to the edge. Steve stops and beams with quiet pride at the sound of your protesting whimpers. 

You sit up and pull Steve in for a kiss, and as you taste yourself on his mouth, your hands wander down the sides of his large frame. There is no doubt in your mind that you want to feel the weight of this man on top of you and inside you, filling you to your core. Steve brushes the hair out of your face before spreading your legs with his knee. He enters you with ease, emitting a low growl, and his strokes are slow, deep, and purposeful. You wrap your legs around the small of his back, and as you lift your hips to meet his, you gasp as Steve buries himself to the hilt. Each forceful thrust pushes you further towards your undoing, and you want to live here in this feeling of taut anticipation. You look up at Steve, eyes darkened over with desire, and listen to the sound of his breaths, ragged and drawn out, as he sinks himself into you again and again. All it takes is one more stroke for you to come, and when you do, your body is an explosion of hot, trembling sensation. You cry out, digging your nails into his back. Watching you unravel at the seams switches something inside of Steve, and he plunges himself into you, jaw clenched. It doesn’t take much longer for Steve to find his release; you feel his muscles tense and his deep-seated groan shatters the quiet. 

You kiss him gently on the bridge of his nose before reaching up and wiping the sweat off his brow. His breath slows, and Steve stares at you through half-lidded eyes then flashes a smile, revealing his perfectly straight teeth. You both lay there, a tangle of limbs, sweat, and contentment, as Steve rests his head on your chest. 

“Did you enjoy your surprise?”

“Yes,” Steve sighs. “Thoroughly. Although, I always knew I was a good man, but to hear that I’m the best man…excellent surprise,” Steve whispers, playfulness on the periphery of his voice. 

“No,” you counter. You stop stroking his hair and tilt your head to look at him full on. “I said that to put an asshole in his place and to make a point.”

“No, no, it’s out there now. You said it yourself.” Steve crosses his arms and smirks. “Damn, it feels good to be the best.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, lounging in a contented glow that only comes once in a great while, to those who are lucky enough to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellllllloooooo Captain.  
> 
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos, positive feedback, and comments :) I appreciate each one and look forward to hearing your reactions and what you think. Ya'll are the best!


	7. Suspended

You carefully pry off the plastic lid, and the spiraling tendrils of steam dissipate into the air. You pour the creamer in slowly and watch the hot liquid rise, stopping once the coffee takes on a caramel hue. And finally, with a flick of the stirrer, a whirlpool of coffee, cream, and sugar emerges, and the concoction sloshes gently up the sides of the cup. You shuffle your way back to the table, excusing yourself past other patrons in need of their late-afternoon caffeine fix. 

“Watching you do that is exhausting,” Bucky sighs, closing his eyes for emphasis. 

You set your coffee down with a soft thud and take a seat across from him, lips pursed and a hint of annoyance playing about your eyes. 

“What?” He raises his hands, palms up, the picture of innocence. “It’s coffee, not a dance routine.”

“I’m sorry I’m not a sociopath who drinks iced coffee in November,” you retort as you eye Bucky’s plastic, sweating tumbler. The perspiration beads down the sides and pools into the napkin underneath. 

“ _Former_ sociopath.”

You smile at his response then break off a piece of your croissant, setting a drift of buttery flakes onto the table. “Anyway, how is my former sociopath feeling these days?”

Bucky leans back in his chair, considers your question, and folds his hands across his chest. “Shoulder feels pretty good. Almost done with my antibiotics. I’ve gotta say, my life has sucked for the good part of a century, but right now, it doesn’t.”

“Good to hear,” you manage between bites. “To add to your lucky streak, I think you’ll be cleared for your next mission. I’m signing off on your form, but you’ll still need Dr. Messer’s signature after your check-up.”

At this, Bucky straightens himself and sits forward, his comfortable countenance gradually shifting into one of concern. “I didn’t get to tell you this earlier, but I’m really sorry about what happened. You know, the whole gunshots, shoulder infection, punitive action…”

“It’s not a big deal. My main priority is that you’re in great health.”

“I just feel bad, you know? I shouldn’t have said anything to Steve. And I know Steve feels bad about it too.” 

You shake your head, attempting to alleviate any guilt on Bucky’s part. “You all have bigger things to worry about than me getting a slap on the wrist.”

You take a sip of your coffee, and the hot liquid begins to warm you from the inside out. You haven’t breathed a word about your dalliance with Steve Rogers to anyone, Nina and your friends notwithstanding (and they continually ask about ‘Grant’ and question whether or not you’ve fucked it all up yet). At the beginning, you’d remind yourself that any chance at exposing your situation would mean serious consequences for your career, and that was the only reason for your self-selected silence. But somewhere in the clove of seasons, between the last leaves falling and first time you woke up next to Steve, you’ve started to realize that it’s more nuanced than you thought. Figuring out what this is, assigning a definition to it, would make it real. And that thought scares you more than anything because anything real could easily be taken away. 

“Speak of the devil, and the devil appears,” Bucky muses. He gives a quick wave to someone just over your shoulder. 

You turn your head and follow Bucky’s line of sight over to the register where you see a familiar set of wide shoulders hidden beneath a dark gray peacoat. You watch Steve for a tick as he pulls cash out of his well-worn leather wallet, drops a generous flurry of bills into the tip jar, and thanks the cashier with a cordial smile. He waits quietly for his coffee, his back flush against a column and eyes peering towards the ground, and to see this huge figure of a man try to take up as little space as possible amidst a sea of customers tickles you to no end. 

“Doc? You okay?”

The sound of Bucky’s voice jostles your train of thought, and when you shift back towards him, you apologize for your brief daydream. A blush creeps up the sides of your neck, and feeling relieved at having kept your scarf on, you smile at him reassuringly. For a split second, a suspect look crosses Bucky’s scruffy face but vanishes just as quickly as it materialized. 

Steve sets his coffee on the table, causing you and Bucky to glance up simultaneously. “Mind if I sit here?” he asks, already pulling out the chair. 

“Yes,” Bucky replies, beating you to the punch. You shoot him a grin. 

“Well, fuck you too, Barnes.” Steve claps him good-naturedly on the shoulder and lowers himself into the open seat. 

You slide what’s left of your croissant towards Steve who nods a silent ‘thank you’ before taking a bite. “I was just telling Bucky that I think he’ll be given an ‘all-clear’…”

“And I think you should call Kate.”

Steve lifts his cup towards his mouth then raises an eyebrow at Bucky’s quizzical statement. “Kate? Who’s Kate?”

Bucky points to the outer sleeve on Steve’s cup where a phone number and the name ‘Kate’ are written with precise care in black Sharpie. “That’s Kate,” Bucky mumbles as he glances towards the counter where a tall, brunette prepares drinks with ease while amiably chatting up a patron. 

“Why don’t _you_ call Kate?” asks Steve. 

“Kate doesn’t want me to call her,” he counters, holding up his notably blank cup for emphasis. The ice rattles around, and a few drops of condensation fall from its bottom edge. “She wants Captain America to call her though.” 

“I’m going to graciously pass.” As the words leave Steve’s lips, you lean your head against your hand, partially obscuring your look of mild yet contented surprise with your fingers. 

Bucky puts in no effort to hide his frustration. “Steve…”

“Buck, I’m not looking to date anyone,” he says with a definitiveness that would be apparent to anyone, anyone except Bucky who continues to prod. You listen with an amused smirk as their conversation bounces to and fro, Steve undercutting Bucky’s reasons each time with his characteristically understated confidence. 

“What do you think?” 

You are mid-sip when you feel their stares turn towards you. “I think,” you pause for dramatics and return your cup to the glossy tabletop, “Steve is an adult who can make his own decisions.”

“Thank you.” Steve graciously nods in your direction. 

Bucky shakes his head with incredulity. “Doc, I thought your job was to help us improve our quality of life.”

“Yeah, by fixing your broken-ass bodies, not fixing you up on dates,” you quip, eliciting a wholehearted laugh out of both men. 

“Touché.” Bucky’s eyes dart up towards the clock. “Shit, it’s almost 6, I’ve got to head out,” he announces and stands to shrug on his lined, hooded jacket. 

Steve props his elbow on the back of his chair. “Where you headed?” 

“It’s my turn to cook dinner,” Bucky answers with a soft groan. “I’ll see you kids later.” 

Your eyes follow Bucky and watch him while he ambles down the sidewalk, a glint of silver peeking out of his sleeve. Your focus breaks when you feel Steve’s hand grab yours, just under the table. As he looks you over, his eyes brighten, and he weaves his sturdy fingers between yours. Like your coffee, this feeling of your fingers wrapped up in Steve’s also warms you from the inside out. 

“Ready?” 

“Yes.” You smile at him as he pulls you to your feet. You exit the café and walk side-by-side, your shoulder within inches of Steve’s long arms. A hard chill in the air forces you to pop your coat collar to shield your ears from the burn of impending winter, and you and Steve head towards the parking lot around the corner. 

“Do you know how to drive?” you ask, stopping in front of your car. 

Steve places his hands on his hips in mock irritation. “Yes,” he replies. “I know how to drive.”

You chuckle then toss him your keys, and soon enough, Steve is taking the exit for the interstate, you in the passenger seat. He picks up his coffee, finishes the remainder, then turns the cup over in his hand. His eyes move over the inked inscription and pan over to you, watching the array of passing cars through the window.

“Buck’s right. I think maybe I will call Kate,” Steve states as he sets the empty cup back in its holder with a hollow thump. 

“You should.” The corners of your mouth curve into a partial smile. “Where are you going to take her on your date?”

“Not sure. I’m a little rusty.” Steve checks his mirror then blind spot and changes lanes before turning towards you. “What do you suggest?” 

“I suggest you pick somewhere that offers a senior citizen’s discount and an early-bird special.”

“You’re hilarious.” 

You giggle softly at your joke but mostly at Steve’s poker-faced reaction. You rest your chin in your hand as you give Steve’s query some genuine thought. “If I were Kate, I’d want to get something other than coffee because drinking coffee isn’t quite a date. It’s date-like, but not a date.”

“Why not?”

“If there’s no chance for sex afterwards, it’s not a date.” 

Steve’s hearty laugh fills the front seat, motivating you to resume your bit. “And if I were Kate, I’d want to make sure it was some place where I could spend some alone time with you because I’m sure she knows _about_ Steve Rogers, but she’d want to get to _know_ Steve Rogers.” You look over at him, your eyes glistening with sincerity, and you swallow before speaking. “And if I were Kate, I’d feel pretty lucky to be out with you.” At this, Steve rests his hand on your thigh and gives it an affectionate squeeze, staring right back. 

He takes the next cut-off and weaves through a series of back roads, finally stopping in front of a quaint, Tudor-style house, one that matches its neighbors in structure and in style. You get out of the car and absorb the sight in front of you. House isn’t the right word; its manicured lawn, frost-kissed flowers lining the meandering walkway, and forest green shutters make it more of a home. As you approach the front door, Steve places his hand on the small of your back, and you lean in to burgeoning comfort of his touch. 

“Evening Steve.” A voice greets the two of you as the front door opens. The light from inside makes it difficult to see the man standing in the threshold. There is a faint outline of form, but the closer you get, the clearer the details become. Small, compact frame. A fine dusting of hair sprinkled across his head, but a full, peppered mustache that sits on top his upper lip. And what is most striking is the pair of light brown eyes, wrapped in a ring of quarry gray, that exude kindness. 

“Thanks for having us, Garrett,” Steve says, giving him a one-armed embrace. He introduces you, and Garrett warmly shakes your hand before ushering you both inside. 

“We met a few years back at a veterans event, but actually Garrett was part of the 442nd regiment, stationed in Germany,” Steve mentions as he hangs both your coats in the hall closet. 

You stop mid-step and reel back. “That’s the most decorated infantry in U.S. history and…”

“It consisted of Japanese-Americans, yes,” Garrett finishes. 

Steve scratches the side of his head as his eyes widen; an impressed expression lines his features. 

“You don’t have to live history to know it,” you add, flashing a grin at Steve then continuing a path deeper into the house. 

Garrett nods his head in your direction. “I like her.”

“Join the club.”

You drink in the photographs hanging on display in main hallway: a woman with dark ringlets in a flowing, mermaid style wedding dress, a set of young girls, no more than 7, playing on a porch in matching floral jumpers, and two long lines of men marching down a remote, dusty road in combat gear. Once you enter the living area, you smile to see a house cluttered with character. Post-its label the contents of each credenza drawer, the T.V. remotes sit perfectly aligned with each other on a varnished coffee table, and a bevy of cross-stitched pillows cover the loveseat, creating more of a display than a place to lounge. It’s a house that feels homey and soaked in memories, like the feeling of flexing a long-lost catcher’s mitt. 

You feel something cold and wet graze the back of your knee, and you turn around to see a goofy, panting face and a pair of charcoal-tinted, velvety ears. You are instantly smitten with this adoring mutt. 

“Hello sweetheart,” you gush. You scratch the coarse fur on her back, and in return, she squints in relieved satisfaction. 

Steve bends down to pet her, and she curves her body towards him, tail wagging furiously, an instant sign of recognition and unwavering affection. “This is Penny.”

“Don’t coddle her,” Garrett calls from the kitchen, his raspy voice growing louder as he walks into the living room. 

“Oh yeah?” asks Steve. “Why’s that?”

Garret holds out an oval serving platter bearing the paltry remains of a roast chicken. You cover your mouth to muffle your laugh at the large hunks of missing meat and the scraps of skin discarded to the plate’s outer edge.

“Penny’s a counter surfer,” he informs you both before half-heartily scolding Penny, who remains unfazed.

Steve stands upright and runs his hand over his prominent chin, and you can practically hear his mental gears clicking and turning. “No problem,” he says with a relaxed shake of his head. “You got eggs by chance?”

* * *

The soft whistling of Penny’s snoring can be heard over the sound of laughter, of forks scraping pancake crumbs and runny yolks off porcelain plates, and the flowing banter of old friends. Sure, there are a couple of war stories, but it never dominates the evening, far from it in fact. Garrett asks about your life, and you share about where you grew up, your family, and what you enjoy about living in New York. There is debate about the merits of the Giants new quarterback, which follows a lengthy discussion about the appeal and genius of _Hamilton_. And while you’ve never been described as ‘reticent’, you are simply content to sit and listen, an observer in a world not entirely your own. It makes you feel nostalgic, heartened, and trusted all at once. 

When there’s a natural lull in conversation, you clear the empty dishes and utensils from the table and carry them to the sink. Steve follows suit, and you stand together, you washing while he rinses. 

“You were quiet at dinner. Anything on your mind?” 

“No, sometimes, and it’s a rare sometimes, I know my place in a conversation.” Your elbow brushes against Steve’s as you hand him a bowl, suds spilling over its sides, and you smile. “I bet it feels good to have shared history with someone. Someone aside from Bucky.”

“There’s that, and it brings some normalcy, you know?” Steve muses as he places a dripping plate onto the drying rack before returning to the basin. “Every couple of weeks, I come here, drink a few beers, take the dog out, we shoot the shit; I don’t have to be anything.”

Garrett walks through the kitchen door and removes a glass from the cabinet. “That’s right. Check your cowl and shield at the door.”

“Exactly. You can’t live the life we live without it getting to you after awhile.”

“The life _you_ live. I’m not an Avenger.”

“And thank God for that,” interrupts Garrett. “That’s the last thing Steve needs.” As he mixes a nightcap, Steve turns around and reaches for a dishtowel. He wipes his hands, and when Garrett notices the silence, he continues. 

“What I’m trying to say is, you can have a career serving your country, and a good one too. But that can’t be the only thing you’ve got going for you.” Garrett stops to taste his drink and a twitch of his moustache indicates approval. “You cannot eat, sleep, live, and breathe work, no matter how noble it is. At the end of the day, you need someone to come home to.”

Steve hands you the dishtowel and as you take care to wipe the remaining water droplets and soapy residue from your fingers, Garrett’s words hang in the air like a fine mist. 

It’s not long until the evening comes to its natural conclusion, and after exchanging thorough goodbyes, Steve drives you home. He turns the key in the ignition, killing the engine, but you don’t reach for the door. Instead, you bask in the quiet and a giddy feeling you can’t quite put your finger on. 

“Thank you for taking me there tonight. It was something I didn’t know I needed.” Your eyes wander towards Steve. Between the light and shadows, his face is the optimal balance of ruggedly handsome angles and an openness that makes your heart ache in the best possible way. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“You going to bring Kate there?” 

“No, it’ll be confusing for Penny if I bring too many women there.” His playful tone elicits a soft smile out of you. “And like I said before, I’m not interested in dating just anyone.” There is a pointed silence, subtext spilling over its sides, as Steve’s clear, blue eyes stare into yours. 

“Steve, I don’t…I need…” you stammer, averting your gaze. You can barely sort out your own labyrinth of feelings let alone put them into coherent sentences. 

“All I’m asking is that you think about what we are. Nothing needs to be decided tonight.” Steve tilts your head up to look at him, and you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Except one thing.”

You raise your eyebrows, curiosity getting the best of you. 

“If you start out with coffee but end with dinner, does this count as a date?”

Biting your lower lip, you crawl over the console, and settle yourself onto Steve’s lap, his thick, thighs framed by your knees. You wrap your arms around him, and instinctively, his hands rest on your waist, fitting perfectly into its curves. 

“Does this answer your question?” you murmur as you stroke the dark, blond hair at the nape of his neck. 

You kiss Steve deeply, and you let the taste of his mouth drive you forward. You can’t help but smile as Steve traces your body, outlining your breasts, and you stay here for a while, consumed in this kiss, in the close heat simmering between you. Even through your barrier of clothes, you can feel the thick, hardness of his erection pressing into you, and a gasp escapes your lips when he grabs your ass, pulling you further into him. You unconsciously grind your hips down, and Steve groans into your mouth. The level of want you feel for this man is unparalleled. It’s palpable as it floods your veins and quickens your breath into audible sighs. 

Steve pauses, easing his head back, drinking in the sight of you. He brushes an errant hair out of your face and tucks it behind your ear. “I’m taking this as a ‘yes’ then.”

You laugh, nodding your head, then lean over so your mouth hovers over his ear. “Please just fuck me, Steve.”

Steve’s hands grip the hem of your sweater dress, edging it upward with a growing urgency. As he does this, his fingers graze your thighs and leave a trail of electricity in its wake. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, certain of what is going to happen and welcoming it with every cell in your body. 

Steve’s phone rings, and the sound effectively shatters the moment with its piercing chime. You curse. Steve leans his head back defeatedly, the phone continuing to ring, before taking it out of his pocket. 

“It’s Tony,” he sighs before picking up. You let your fingers play with the collar of Steve’s button down as you sit in wait. You can’t quite hear the entirety of their dialogue, but as you watch Steve’s expression grow serious, you adjust your dress back into place.

“You’ve got to go,” you state as soon as Steve hangs up. 

“I don’t want to though.”

You press your lips to his, holding his face in your hands. “Go save the world. Then come back and fuck me.” 

Steve laughs, and the deep timber of it soothes your disappointment. “That’s a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if that left you hot and bothered. If it's any consolation, I'm sure it left Steve hot and bothered too.  
>   
> Once again, thanks for your kudos, comments, and subscriptions! It brings a smile to my face whenever I hear from one of ya'll, so if you have a moment, drop a line. :)


	8. Stilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot of smut. TBH, it doesn't really move the plot forward; it was just something fun to write between the protagonist and Steve. If that's not your thing, you can move along and wait for Chapter 9. But, if you're a garbage person like me, enjoy!

Your eyes flit open, and whether it was the twittering of an oriole or the crunch of tires on a nearby gravel driveway, you aren’t sure. Hazy light drifts lazily through your blinds, coating the duvet, the dresser, and the carpet in a faded blue, and you don’t need to look at the clock to realize it’s early, much earlier than you usually wake on weekends. You lay there and curl up in the tangle of sheets, the warmth from your sleeping body trapped within each wrinkle, only to find that in these last few moments, sleep has tip-toed away from you, just out of grasp. As you lay there, last night’s events come into focus, slowly at first, and with it, merely a sense of wanting. This feeling sharpens as you recall your evening with Steve until each detail returns with complete clarity, and the memory of his concrete body pressing up into yours elevates your breath. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the bright glow of your phone on the bedside table and have a sneaking suspicion as to what woke you. You grab it to see Steve’s name appear across the top of your screen. Giddiness pricks your fingertips as you open the text. 

_Just arrived. Sorry for leaving. I’ll make it up to you._

You smirk in the fading darkness of your room. Only Steve Rogers would apologize for getting called away on a mission. You craft your response then hit ‘send.’ 

_I was under the impression that Captain America apologizes to no one._  


_He doesn’t. Steve Rogers does._

That explains a lot. Your mind races back to the first time you met Steve. You’d worked at the facility for no more than a week when the team returned from a particularly nasty mission abroad; Nat was holed up in the infirmary, Rhodes underwent two blood transfusions, and there was Steve, sitting in your office after suffering from a collapsed lung. Holding the chest tube you’d inserted only hours before. Having checked himself out of the hospital. Days prematurely. It was then that you knew Cap wouldn’t just be a regular pain in the ass. No. He planned on being a thorn in your side, one that buried itself under your skin and needled you whenever convenient for shits and giggles. It’s remarkable to think about that person now, especially in comparison with the Steve you’ve come to know, who with a single look awakens something inside you that is dangerous and warm and unquenchable. 

Your phone vibrates as another text rolls in from him. _Were you asleep?_

 _Yes. It’s still early here,_ you type, lounging against your headboard. 

_Guess I have two things to make up to you now._

A mischievous grin spreads across the lower half of your face. It doesn’t take you long to reply. _That sounds like an awfully big task…_

_I’m up for it. And if you’ve got some time, I can start now and finish later._

Your eyes widen after reading Steve’s message, and you get the distinct impression that you were not the only one left unsatisfied last night. _Oh yeah? What about the safety of the free world?_

_I’ll take care of it. But first I’m gonna take care of you._

_Tell me why I need that._ You work your bottom lip with your teeth while awaiting Steve’s response. 

Your phone buzzes. _Because I didn’t get a chance to fuck you into the floor._

Although you’re alone, there is a part of you that wants to sink down deeper into your pile of sheets and covers, as if to disappear completely into a conflicting spiral of yearning and chasteness. But you resist that temptation, and instead, relinquish yourself over to the part of you that hums with each word Steve writes.

Your phone vibrates, and your eyes move over the screen. _Are you in bed?_

_Yes._

_Show me._

For a second, you consider changing into something more risqué. Not lingerie because it somehow makes you feel like you’re trying a bit too hard, but a set of matching underwear perhaps. Classic black? Something violet and lacey? You do a mental rundown of your collection when you realize Steve is waiting on the other end. What you’re wearing will have to do. You snap a picture of you in your low-rise briefs and camisole, laying atop your crumpled sheets. Send.

 _Fuck._ A second message quickly follows. _What are you thinking about?_

Your eyes close, and your mind yanks an image from its catalogue. _The way you look at me when you spread my legs,_ you write.

_What else?_

You hips stir at the memory of Steve’s hands on your ass, pulling you closer to him so that you could feel just how much he wanted you. _How rubbing myself against your cock last night wasn’t nearly enough._

_God, you make me hard._

_Yeah? Show me._

In reality, it only takes a minute for Steve to reply, but it feels like time has come to a standstill within these four walls. When you open the photo, you cover your mouth, not so much in shock, but to quiet your sharp inhale. You’ve seen Steve shirtless before, naked in fact, but the sight of his body up close is a spectacle to behold, a terrain of flawlessly defined valleys and mountains. You feel the need to run your fingers over each groove on his skin and commit its feel to memory. Your eyes follow the v-shaped ridge down the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants and stop at the hard length stretching against the fabric. 

_Are you wet?_ he asks.

_Yes._

_Take off your panties._

_No. Not yet._ You are enjoying the way your skin tingles, the way your desire for him stretches from your core and spreads through each limb, leaving you flushed from head to toe. 

_I like when you’re defiant. It makes me think of things I want to do to you in return._ You can practically hear Steve on the edge of your ear, low and throaty, and your mouth having gone dry, you swallow hard. 

_Like what?_

As you watch the three suspended dots flutter across the screen, you cross one leg over the other, drawing out the tension in your body. You silently urge Steve to type faster; he replies. 

_I want you naked and on your knees. I want to watch my cock sink into you as I hit you from behind. I want to graze your nipple with my teeth while you ride me. How’s that for starters?_

And with that, something inside you snaps. Your fingers fly over the screen, and you know you shouldn’t, but you are dialing Steve’s number before any remnants of logic can stop you. You hear a click on the other line and hit the ‘speaker’ button. 

“Tell me more about what you want to do to me,” you breathe. 

“Panties off.” A catch betrays his usually calm voice; Steve wants this as much as you do, and you swim in this knowledge while sliding your underwear down your legs, kicking them towards the edge of your mattress. 

“Done.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not there because if I were, they’d be in tatters on the floor. Touch yourself.”

There is no resisting Steve’s command, and it’s almost as if he were here, guiding your hand down himself. You reach between your legs and feel its slickness, the softness of your own folds. 

“You’ve made me so wet,” you groan as you start to work your fingers around your clit. “You would love fucking me right now.”

It is quiet for a moment, but before it can give you pause, you hear a loud moan on the other end. You close your eyes and envision Steve, mouth half-open, hand gliding up and around his shaft in slow, tight movements, all at the sound of your voice. And the thought of this man, the epitome of the human strength and physique, coming undone because of you sends a charged shiver down your spine. 

“You know what I love?” you continue. “I love how I can go from feeling so empty to so full when you’re thrusting into me. I love when you hold me down, I can’t move, and I take the full force of your cock.” You slide two fingers deep into your core and whimper, both delighted at the feeling and dismayed that it’s not Steve. You keep talking. The words flow from you like water, and as you describe every detail aloud, Steve’s breathing becomes an erratic stream of labored sighs and growls. You bring him closer to the precipice, your reverie only breaking at the distinct sound of his hand against his flesh. You sync your movements to match his. It doesn’t take long before you hear him call your name with a guttural shout, and at this, you let go and make your body sing under your own touch. You tense once you fall over the edge, and jolt after jolt of pleasure shoots through you, radiating from your center as you listen to the sound of Steve’s slowed breathing. 

“You still there?” You look over at your cell, and it takes you a second to realize that Steve is still on the line. You grab your device and cradle it between your ear and your shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’m still here. When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know,” Steve replies, his tone apologizing for its uncertainty. “But you can bet your sweet ass I’ll see you the moment I get there.”

You smile into your phone; there was a good amount of Cap in Steve Rogers as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I 100% credit this gif for my inspiration. Fucking A.  
> 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for your kudos, fun/hilarious/encouraging comments, and for your subscriptions! Hearing from you is a definite highlight of writing this fic, and I'm really grateful to be part of this community. Let me know what you think and drop a line in the box below. :)


	9. Redefined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! I was lucky enough to go on a fantastic birthday getaway and was otherwise occupied. BUT, patience is a virtue, and this chapter is quite long, so hopefully, you enjoy having a little extra to read. :)

“Uh huh….yes, I’ll look into it later…” you mumble, only half-listening to your mom’s anecdote. You rifle through your cluttered jewelry box and push aside an assortment of dainty necklaces, statement pieces, and discarded bracelets. You sigh in relief when you find the pair of earrings for which you’ve been searching these past ten minutes. 

You put each earring on, carefully sliding the backings into place, then hurry down the hall to check the final product. 

“Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later. Yep, love you, bye.” After hanging up, you set your phone down on the entryway table with a soft clatter. 

When you gaze into the standing mirror, your reflection takes you by surprise. You look quite good. The saleswoman assured you that navy was the way to go, and she was right. The dark blue compliments your skin tone and provides a rich contrast to the dramatic cut of the dress. You adjust the fabric in the front, making sure its secured over your breasts and turn this way, then that, checking its flowing skirt and dropped back for any imperfections. Seeing none, you smile satisfactorily to yourself. 

As you grab your setting spray, the doorbell rings. You close your eyes and spray a light list mist over your features then check your appearance one last time. You nod your head in approval, grab your clutch and peach wrap coat, and unlock the deadbolt 

“Hi Cameron,” you purr, opening the door. 

* * *

_2 Days Earlier_

Your superior rattles off your name along with others in the practice, and although you keep a straight face, you inwardly smile, excited at the prospect of seeing Steve after five excruciating days. You and your colleagues take the long path down to the hangar, and as they discuss upcoming conferences and recently published journal articles, you get in a few words here or there for appearances’ sake. But, your focus remains elsewhere, lodged between the need to brush your lips against Steve’s and the feeling when he stares at you intently as you’re talking, as if the balance of the universe hangs on your very words. 

When you walk in, the hangar has already been reconfigured for post check-ups. Temporary stalls fill the normally empty space, each equipped with a laptop available for use, medical supplies, portable machines, and anything else you’d need at your disposal. You choose one of the stalls at the far end and begin setting up your station, washing up, and getting your head in order. The sound of the lowering quinjet ramp catches your attention, and you look up from your task at hand. _Wanda, Sam, Bucky, Nat, Steve_. Engrossed in a conversation with Nat, Steve doesn’t notice you at first, but your eyes sweep over him. You can tell he’s discussing something important because of the way he gestures, and when he turns his head, you notice a shadow of scruff lining his cheek. You raise your eyebrows, slightly impressed at the short amount of time it takes for him to grow facial hair and at how effortlessly sexy he looks with it. 

“Nat.” You greet her warmly as she hoists herself on the makeshift table. “How was it?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she says, removing her jacket. “Assholes attempt to make illegal arms deals, we make them pay for it, then we come home.” 

Her lack of expression makes you chuckle, and without saying anything, Nat already starts rolling up her sleeves, an expert in the post-mission process by now. You check her blood pressure, which, to no surprise, rivals an Olympian’s as she begins to recommend a T.V. series to you. 

“It’s about this man who goes deep undercover into a crime organization, but he’s a civilian working for MI6.” 

You put down your otoscope, switching off its light, after having checked her eyes. “I’m surprised you’d choose to watch that. Seems as if it hits a little close to home.”

“Well, yes, but that guy’s in it.” Nat snaps her fingers in an effort to jog her memory. “British, really tall, handsome, in a lot of movies…”

“Tom Hiddleston.” You turn your head at the familiarity of the voice and see Steve one stall over. Your eyes connect, and the world slows for just a second. 

“You said that way too fast,” teases Nat, to which Steve closes his eyes and shrugs. 

You continue with the physical, stopping every once in awhile to input vital information into the database, and as you are ready to send Nat off on her way, the hangar door unexpectedly opens once more. Pepper, graceful and beautiful as always, glides towards the row of patients, and although you harbor no ill will towards her (even after your previous meeting), her presence remains a curiosity. You are accustomed to seeing her occasionally in the hospital’s hallways or seated around the table at meetings, but rarely outside of these contexts. And it’s especially a surprise when she comes to a stop in front of you and Nat. 

“Hi ladies.”

“Hi Ms. Potts,” you reply as Nat gives her a quick wave of recognition. “What brings you to these parts?”

“Actually,” Pepper smiles congenially at you, “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Alright….” 

Pepper waits for you to say more, but at your silence, takes up the cue to continue. “Are you going to the hospital gala this Saturday?”

Tony and Pepper frequently host charity events at the Avengers Tower, but unlike most of their charity events, the biannual hospital gala requires the attendance of all the doctors and nurses under their employment. You and other attendings mingle amongst wealthy donors and distinguished guests, expected to regale them with riveting tales about caring for the team, to astound them with your medical acumen, and to compel them to write decidedly large checks by the evening’s end. You’ve gone to a couple now and know that while the doctors can be quite charming, it’s really the Avengers presence that influences the obscene amount of money brought in by these events. 

“Yes, I’m going. Why?” you ask, trying to mask the skepticism in your voice. 

Pepper shifts her weight from one foot to the other, as if suddenly reticent about her oncoming query, and you hang in wait. “Well, I was wondering if you had a date, and if not, if you wanted to bring a friend of mine.” You knit your brow in confusion, and reading your body language, Pepper resumes her monologue. “I heard you’re not dating anyone, and I have a friend who works here. Cameron, he works in mission control, and I think you all would have a great time together.” 

Nat hops off the table. “He’s your type,” she adds. “Nice guy, curly mop of hair, cute face. Go for it.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, feigning thoughtfulness, but really, this is an attempt to keep a resounding rejection from bursting forth. Sure, a rational part of you knew that attending this event wrapped around Steve’s arm was never going to happen, but it didn’t stop you from wanting him to see you, to really _see_ you. Neither you nor Steve risked texting or calling each other after that first night, and the lack of communication only magnified your desire to floor him, especially after the days spent apart. Hell, you even bought a stunning dress with the intention of seeing how fast he could get you out of it. But, right now was not the time to cloud your judgment with the possibility of Steve. Saying ‘no’ to your boss, let alone your boss’ boss, would put an uneasy target on your back. And if you say ‘no’ but spend the evening near Steve, it would also attract unwanted attention. But, if you say ‘yes,’ going on this one date may put you back into good graces with Pepper and Tony and possibly reinstate your job security. As you contemplate this proposal, you don’t have to turn around to feel the weight of Steve’s gaze on you. 

“Sure, why not,” you say finally. You force a smile at Pepper’s enthusiastic response. She takes your phone and adds Cameron’s number into your contacts, promising that he will get in touch with you soon before she takes her leave. 

You turn to Nat, who’s already put on her jacket. “You’re good to go.” 

“Apparently as are you,” she replies with a sly smile. 

You clean up your station thoroughly, returning each item to its rightful place, spraying disinfectant over the equipment, and scanning the area for any items you may have missed, partly in hope that it will buy you a few minutes alone with Steve. Meanwhile, you sneak glances at him out of your peripheral vision, but as he finishes his physical examination, you can’t quite get a read on him. He nods when listening to your colleague, answering questions with aplomb, and it’s Steve’s impassive appearance that puts you on alert. You pretend not to notice when Dr. Warren clears him for dismissal, and you casually wander over to the stall where Steve’s adjusting his shirt. 

“Hey Dr. Warren, are you all set with Captain Rogers? There were a few follow-up questions I forgot to ask him during his last appointment, and I wanted to see if I could squeeze them in now.” 

No more than a minute passes until it is only you and Steve. The crack of uneasiness you’d felt upon accepting Pepper’s proposition opens up into a chasm of awkwardness as he towers over you, waiting for you to speak first. In spite of your inclination to shrink or look away, you stare up at him, prepared to defend your choices. And when you find Steve’s features relaxed rather than stoic, you swallow the trickle of guilt that’s beginning to well in your throat. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have much of a choice.” 

“You did. You could’ve said ‘no.’”

“Steve, it’s not like you can be my date…” you start in an attempt to explain your actions. 

He holds up a hand, effectively cutting you off. “You know, I’m not even mad. But, this is what I think.” Steve’s eyes carefully pan the hangar before he resumes, volume lowered. “I think that in spite of everything, you are scared. And accepting that date is your way of avoiding what scares you, which is us.”

“Of course I’m scared,” you admit incredulously. How could he have not realized this before? “There are actual stakes for me in this.”

“And there are none for me?” asks Steve, a subdued sharpness in his voice. 

“Well, you’ve literally burned down SHIELD, stolen a quinjet, broken into the Raft, released incarcerated prisoners…” you rattle off. Steve opens his mouth as if to interject but you shoot him a pointed look and plow ahead. “And yet, here you are, without any lasting consequences. Meanwhile, I sign one form and get my ass handed to me, so I’m sorry for being a little cautious about my future.”

“You can justify it however you want,” he replies nonchalantly. “But, you know I’m right. I’ve got to go.” His even-keeled tone only agitates the swirling mix of frustration and guilt grounding you to this spot as he begins to walk away. 

“I thought you said you’re not mad at me.”

Steve stops, turning his head to look straight at you. “I’m not, but if you think I’m going to feel completely okay with you exploring your options, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll see you.” 

You release a drawn out sigh, and your shoulders drop as your eyes finally crash to the floor. _Fuck_.

* * *

“You look nice,” Cameron says with an easy smile. 

“Thanks, you too.” 

You’d done your due diligence and perused his social media footprint prior to his arrival, but as you look Cameron over, you realize that there is something sweetly attractive about him that his online presence fails to convey. A mess of dark curls falls gently over his forehead, highlighting his mocha-colored eyes, and his clean-shaven face makes him look much younger than you anticipated. He exudes a worn-in casualness in his overall demeanor that you find endearing. Nat was right; he is your usual type. 

“You ready?” 

“Let’s go,” you reply, smoothing out the wrinkles on your coat. You check your doorknob, ensuring it’s locked, and follow Cameron to his car. “You ever been to one of these things before?”

As Cameron opens your door, a flash of embarrassment crosses his face—you nearly miss it—before he responds. “Yeah, a few years back. They’re…a lot.”

“Well, Tony Stark isn’t known for being understated,” you laugh as you buckle your seatbelt. 

“I had a good time when I was there.” Cameron checks his mirror then pulls out onto your street. “And I think we’ll have fun tonight.” He smiles your way, and you can’t help but reciprocate. 

You want to dislike him. Really, you do. You try to focus on every little imperfection that surfaces, including his commitment to driving just under the speed limit, that he’s not much of a reader, and the way his hint of a southern drawl slows the pace of your dialogue. However, you find it difficult to concentrate on these so-called flaws when talking to him feels easy, and he balances your conversation both with questions about your life and interesting tidbits about himself. By the time you arrive, you are aware that Cameron spends his summers in Nags Head with a gaggle of nieces and nephews and that he was an aerospace engineer prior to working for SHIELD and the Avengers. 

With a flash of your badge, you and Cameron bypass the zigzagging line of coifed guests, bundled in their winter best and waiting for admittance into the tower. The commotion outside is deafening and overwhelming, made so by the slew of curious onlookers, demanding photographers yelling across the crowd, and urban dwellers simply attempting to make their way home. Relief washes over you once you and Cameron wait in the silence of the elevator, and sandwiched between other attendees, you observe the numbers as they increase in sequence. Your mind drifts away from Cameron, and you try to shake the image of Steve and the playful spark that illuminated his blue eyes when he pressed you up against the cool, metal wall. Unconsciously, your hand grasps the rail behind you until you reach the atrium. 

After checking your coat, you walk through the bustling space, slowly absorbing the flurry of conversation and excited activity around you. It’s your typical Stark-inspired charity event: attentive wait staff weaving seamlessly through a sea of guests, designer-made outfits and eye-catching couture spread at all points across the open floor plan, and the giddy laughter of those waiting to meet the team as they drink in abundance but eat sparingly. In the midst of it, you and Cameron stop to chat with some of the on-staff nurses you recognize then park yourselves in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Cameron grabs you a glass of champagne from one of the passing servers, which you gladly accept. 

“If you need to go mingle with some donors, I’ll be fine on my own,” he assures you. _Christ, stop being so considerate._

You take a sip from your flute. “Duly noted, but I think I need something to ease my nerves first. I’m not the best when it comes to subtly begging donors for their money.” 

“That’s not an easy conversation to have,” Cameron acknowledges, looking you over. “But, you look the part.” A blush rises to the tops of his cheeks as soon as he says this. “What I mean is, you look really great, that’s all.” 

“Thanks,” you demur. You are momentarily at a loss for words, torn between wanting to return the compliment and wondering about Steve’s whereabouts in this crowd. 

“Cam the man!”

You’d recognize that enthusiastic charisma anywhere, and you swivel around, turning your back on the view and grin at Sam who’s briskly heading your way. He’s dressed to the nines in a royal blue suit, and there’s not a doubt in your mind that he knows how good he looks. 

“This your date?” Sam asks Cameron, giving him a quick hug hello before giving you one as well. 

“Yes, I’m his date,” you interrupt. Your attention shifts between the two men, and you are alight with confusion. “How do you know each other?”

“Cameron? We go way back.”

“Not way back,” Cameron corrects with a wave of his hand. “A few years. We met right after SHIELD collapsed…” Cameron allows his statement to fade, then adjusts his posture, straightening out his stance. “Captain Rogers,” he nods. 

Your insides feel light as you turn away from Cameron to see Steve, sidled up beside Sam. How he always figures out a way to sneak into conversations without your knowledge annoys you to no end, but that feeling ebbs once you look Steve over. It’s a fact that everyone looks their best selves when at these kinds of events, but Steve Rogers wears a classic tux like it was made for him and only him in mind. The crisp lines emphasize his statuesque height, and rather than shaving, his scruff has grown into a short beard, giving Steve an air of sophistication in addition to his good looks. _Goddamnit_.

“Hi Cameron, good to see you,” Steve says, extending his hand towards him, which Cameron shakes reverently. As he introduces you, Steve’s icy blue eyes meet yours, and the feeling of irritation swells. With a roomful of people eager to chat (and to break out their checkbooks), Steve has the gall to make himself known to your date. _Wait, did he just call Cameron by name…_

“How do you know Cameron, Captain? In fact,” your eyes dart from Steve, to Sam, then finally land on Cameron, “why do you all know each other?” 

Sam raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and, more than anything, this looks put you on edge as Sam begins his explanation. “When he worked for SHIELD, Cameron was the one that stood up to Rumlow in the control room. You know those helicarriers?” You nod your head slowly, and Sam resumes his story. “He refused to launch them. He’s a hero.”

“No, no, I am not,” Cameron interjects, shaking his head. A trail of pink outlines the outer ridges of his ears, and you beam at his humility. “Anyone else would’ve done the same thing.”

“They wouldn’t,” Steve says with definitiveness. “I’m glad to see you here. I’ve gotta make some acquaintances, but I’ll catch you later.” Steve turns to you, his face serious. “Be good to him.”

“Actually, Captain Rogers, there’s a donor, Mrs. Leibowitz, who is dying to meet you. Let me introduce you to her. Cameron, will you be okay with Sam for a minute?” 

“Of course he’ll be okay,” Sam assures you. Cameron nods in agreement and takes your champagne glass from you as you lead Steve away from the pair. 

The skirt of your dress swishes rapidly with each step you take, and the sound of its movement harmonizes with the steady click of your heels against the marble tile. You walk with an implied purpose, and luckily, it happens to distance any attendees from approaching Steve as you duck into a darker corner of the atrium, hidden between set of columns and the entrance to one of the many bars. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask, the irritation bubbling out of you. 

Surprise sprints across Steve’s angular face, and he tucks his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think you get to be mad at me. If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one out on a date.”

“Yes, I know that,” you reply, blinking away your impatience. You sigh and begrudgingly remind yourself that in spite of everything, Steve is _not_ wrong. “What I mean to say is why are you telling me this? You know, Cameron and Rumlow?” 

“I didn’t tell you; Sam did.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, if you are truly exploring your options…”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

Steve ignores you and continues. “…Then you need to know who it is you’re going out with. That’s only fair. Cameron is a good man.” You search Steve’s countenance for any traces of sarcasm but come up empty. Lines stretch across the width of his forehead in a show of sincerity. This isn’t jealousy; this isn’t anger. No. This is truth. _I’m always honest._ “You have a choice here: take the easy path with a good man or take the hardest path with, and these are your words, not mine, the best man.” 

You hold Steve’s stare for a second before averting your eyes, the earnestness of his words burrowing into your chest. You fold your forearms one over the other. “Steve, it’s not that simple…” you start.

“It is. Do you think I enjoy seeing you with someone else? Especially after a few nights ago?” Steve inches closer, unnoticeable to anyone nearby but clear to you, who have come to know his movements almost as well as your own. “I need a decision because I can’t do this. Really, you owe me that much.” 

Steve cups your cheek with his hand, and while you soften under his touch, his words hover, thick like a rolling fog. As quickly as it happens, he lets you go and excuses himself. You turn on your heel and head in the other direction, and against your better judgment, you stop to glance over your shoulder. You catch a glimpse of Steve as he moves further away, blending into a growing crowd of partygoers, his figure diminishing into their vortex of tempered elation. You stash this interaction into the back half of your mind and remind yourself that unlike other gala attendees, you have an expectation to fulfill as well as a date to entertain. Taking a breath, you put one foot in front of the other, projecting more confidence than you currently feel, and return to Cameron. 

Cameron grins as he hands you back your drink. “Is Mrs. Leibowitz enjoying her time with Cap?”

“Yes,” you answer, sipping the fizzy liquid. “Very much. Come on.” You loop your arm through Cameron’s and look up at him sweetly. “This is a working date.”

The next couple of hours tick by, and you almost don’t notice as it passes. Your evenings at these things mostly consist of rotating through your mental checklist: 1. Breathe 2. Drink slowly 3. Stand straight 4. Be mindful of your dress and 5. For god’s sake think of something interesting to say. But, that list fades in Cameron’s presence; he is the essential wingman and has a disarming quality that puts even the most stoic of donors at ease, you included. Cameron laughs at your stories and chimes in with helpful information, like explaining precisely how mission control stays in contact with the team and its doctors, thereby impressing Nat, a hard feat. You and Cameron are en route towards another group of honored guests when you feel a tap on your bare shoulder. 

“Pepper,” you greet warmly. “Great party. Really lovely.” 

A broad smile moves across her thin face. “Thank you. Between you and me, you two are killing it.” 

“It’s all her.” Cameron peers over at you, and being put on the spot makes you feel suddenly self-conscious. 

Pepper opens her mouth as if to say something more, but she pauses. You can tell by the look of thrilled curiosity that she wants to ask about your date, but she stops herself, always the gracious host. “Why don’t you all take a break? It’s a cold night, but if you go out onto the balcony, the view is beautiful.” 

“Are you okay being chilly for a few minutes?” Cameron inquires. 

You catch sight of Steve at the far end of the room. He’s surrounded by small half-circle of people, including Tony. You can tell that Tony is coercing Steve to say something, perhaps continue with an anecdote that has dropped off, and as Steve shakes his head, a woman places her hand on the lapel of his jacket, her simple gesture silently compelling him to continue the captivating tale. She lets it linger for a second too long before dropping her hand back at her side, letting it dangle around the fitted fabric of her dress.

Your attention snaps back to Cameron. “Yes, I’d like that.” 

Cameron leads you out onto the balcony, his hand on your back, and when the cold hits you, you wake abruptly from the warmth of the party and flowing champagne. You aren’t sure whether the goose bumps on your shoulders are because of the decidedly hard nip in the air or from sheer nerves. But the air outside is still, marked by skies the color of quarry rock, and snowfall feels imminent. You look out at the flood of twinkling lights extending from the streets all the way to the riverbank. 

“This, I miss,” you sigh, walking to the ledge. 

“Manhattan?”

You shake your head. “No, I miss how quiet the city can seem, even though you know it’s teeming with more life than it can hold.”

“Kind of like you,” Cameron points out. He’s standing next to you, and over the gleaming cityscape, he kisses you, softly pressing his mouth to yours. You pull back and stare at him with a mix of remorse and dawning realization. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I overstepped, and…”

“No, don’t. I should’ve never accepted this date. And yet you’ve made it so damn hard not to like you. But,” you bite your bottom lip, as if trying to keep the idea you’ve been working over from spilling out, “there’s someone else I want to be with.” At the moment you utter those words, the only thought that crosses your mind is that you need to be anywhere but here, anywhere that Steve is. 

Cameron gives you a small smile, and good lord, you don’t deserve how nice this man is. “I get it. I wish I didn’t, but I get it. Go.” You give him a quick kiss on the cheek and head back inside. 

Your eyes sweep the expansive room and land on Steve, still standing near the pool table. You stroll towards him, gripping the skirt of your dress in one hand, and he looks up as you approach. For a moment, he holds your stare, a drizzle of curiosity and wonder fall over his features, before turning back to the speaker of that intimate crowd, the mayor’s son. There are no more than six or seven people gathered, including Steve and Tony, but when you stop at its periphery, their focus crashes on you, testing your resolve. You smile apologetically. 

“Excuse me, Captain Rogers, can I speak with you for a moment?” You pray Steve catches hold of the subtext, then you swivel towards the rest. “Doctor-patient privilege,” you explain to the bystanders. 

“Yes, excuse me.” Steve edges past the remainder of the attendees and follows you wordlessly. 

You aren’t sure where you are going, but your feet lead you further away from the cacophony of the party through a series of weaving hallways and a maze of unmarked rooms. You try the handle to one and when the latch releases, you pull Steve in and close the door behind him with a solid thud. It’s a conference room of some sort, more plush and decorated than average, and based on the blinds attached to each glass-paned window, you are certain of its privacy, in spite of the faint sounds of the gala permeating the walls. 

Steve stands opposite of you, and the swirl of city lights and moon light streaming in through the window cast an ethereal glow over his face. “Speak.” The single utterance from him unlocks the bevy of words that come pouring forth from you. 

“You were right. I could’ve said ‘no,’ and I didn’t. And you have always been honest with me, and I haven’t been the same with you. I could spend the rest of tonight explaining the how and the why, but that seems secondary.” You pause to gauge Steve’s reaction, and all you can gather is that you are holding his rapt attention and owe him a concrete answer. You move forward with your explanation. “And I guess what I’m trying to say is that it was a mistake when I told you I wanted you because really, I am choosing us.”

Silence replaces the sound of your voice, and you swallow hard as you look up at Steve. His eyes move down your body, over the meandering lines of your dress, then bore into you with unsettling intensity. You are about to apologize when Steve crushes your lips to his, quieting a yelp of surprise that escapes you. Kissing him is both an exercise in familiarity and untamed desire; you explore the contours of his mouth, and even though you’ve done this before, the feeling of his tongue as it runs over yours tugs at your nerve endings, starting between your legs. 

Getting this man undressed becomes your first priority, and your heels give you enough of an advantage that you manage to shove his jacket off his wide shoulders, and the material falls into a heap on the floor. You continue with your quest, and a flick of your wrist undoes his bow tie. You get to the first button of his shirt, but your lips break away and emit a gasp as his hand ducks beneath the front of your dress. A satisfied grin flashes across Steve’s face as he leads a path over your bare stomach before gripping the curve of your waist. His fingers blaze a trail downwards and over the center of you. 

“No underwear?” Steve asks, a note of pleasant surprise in his voice. 

“It doesn’t go with this outfit,” you breathe, your words steadily losing their coherency as Steve runs a finger between your slickness. 

“Which you are stunning in,” he murmurs, brushing your clit and eliciting a low growl out of you. “But, I think right now, I’m more concerned with the gorgeous creature underneath this dress.” Steve slides his fingers inside you and moves them in such a way that you nearly forget your name. It’s miracle at all that you notice the armchair in the corner, and the memory of your last encounter gives you pause. 

It takes every ounce of willpower you have to pull away, and when you do, Steve tilts his head, beguiled and impressed at your restraint. You smile and press your lips to his before nudging him backwards. He follows your lead, and you see his body flicker with anticipation when you push him down into the seat. You walk the circumference of the room, stopping to close each set of blinds until all that’s left are thin lines of light illuminating the darkness. You step out of your heels and, smiling widely, kneel in front of the armchair. Steve’s eyes close as you trace the hardening outline over his pants, feeling both omnipotent and wildly enamored as you track his every reaction. You press the palm of your hand against him, rubbing the full length, and at this, his long, dark lashes flutter. You do it again, harder this time. Vulnerability and pleasure ease their way across Steve’s face, softening its ruggedness, and it makes him the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Undoing his pants, his cock springs forth, heavy and thick. You wrap your fingers around it and work your hand slowly up and down his shaft, watching Steve’s chest as it rises and falls with a fractured breath. A low groan escapes him when you take him into your mouth. You start off teasingly, creating circles around the head with your tongue before easing yourself down his shaft. A thrill creeps up your spine upon seeing his hands grip the armrests, and you play with the intensity, going hard and fast and demanding then backing off when you hear his breathing grow ragged. This goes on for awhile, and as you work his cock between your lips, your mind wanders back to the woman with her hand on his lapel, and a sense of gratification floods you, knowing that it’s you who he sees when he looks down. You run your hands along his muscular thighs, and as you feel his body tense under your ministrations, you pull away, not wanting to push him over the edge. 

“Fuck,” Steve moans, to which you grin. 

You stand and, bunching handfuls of your dress into your fists, lift yourself onto Steve’s lap. Your legs frame his, and you can feel the rigidness of his cock pressing into your wet slit. Steve grabs your face and kisses you deeply, his mouth an expression of his aching need to be a part of you. You play with his thick tendrils of hair then place your hands on the tops of his shoulders, and you whimper quietly when you feel the head of his cock breach your entrance. Steve holds you by your waist and lowers you onto him, and you let out an audible groan when you feel his complete length inside you. At this, Steve covers your mouth momentarily, turning your attention to the muffled sounds of the party in the far distance. You nod in understanding, and his hand returns to your waist. You start off slow, working your hips back and forth easily, and your mouth goes agape when he hits you in just the right spot. You increase the speed, and you grind your hips against him, your nerves catching fire, spreading throughout your limbs. You look at Steve through half-lidded eyes, and when he holds your gaze, the intensity burns through you. You feel yourself getting lost in him and are mesmerized by watching his every move, the way his hand peels away the fabric on the front of your dress, the way his mouth peppers your breasts with kisses, and Steve knows this. He smiles wickedly when he rakes his teeth over your nipple, and you shut your eyes at the sharpness of feeling, swallowing the moan that’s caught in your throat. You feel your body relinquish the little control you have left, and Steve thrusts into you, hard, setting a brutal, unrelenting pace. You can feel your orgasm coming on, slowly at first then all at once as Steve kneads your ass between his hands, working you up and down his shaft. You wrap your body tightly around him and tuck your head into the crook of his neck, your body becoming a rigid bundle of pulsing sensation and endless waves of release. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out, and at this, Steve’s face contorts into a recess of desire, and he buries himself into you completely. As your mind starts to clear, you kiss him gently, then whisper sweet nothings into his ear, coaxing him forward, taking him inside you fully each time until you watch as Steve unravels with a barely-restrained groan. You feel his muscles relax underneath you, and when he opens his eyes, Steve runs his hand along your face, his fingertips wiping away the beads of sweat along your temple.

“No more games,” he says, more of an assurance than a question. 

“No. I am yours. Completely.” You feel yourself smile as the scruff from his beard tickles your face between kisses, and it is both everything you could’ve asked for and so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This man can wear a tux, and it makes me feel all the things.  
> 
> 
> Ya'll, we are at Chapter 9 and over 100 subscriptions! I never thought this story would reach this point, but your support and encouragement are excellent motivators. Thank you to the moon and back for your kudos/comments/subscriptions. Again, I thoroughly enjoy reading what you have to say, so if you've got a moment, please drop a line. :) Once again, thanks team!


	10. Recovered

The trace of a smile slides across Steve’s lips, but his eyes remain closed, creating a delicious contrast between his extensive, dark lashes and fair skin. “Stop watching me sleep,” he whispers, his voice puncturing the relative silence of your bedroom. 

“But you look so peaceful,” you sigh. You adjust your body so that you are tucked into the v-shaped crevice between his long legs, your torso on top his hips. 

“It’s creepy.”

“You know what else is creepy? How this,” you lace your fingers through the auburn of Steve’s beard and his smile grows into one that is wide and boyish, “makes me feel like I’m sleeping with someone who lives under a bridge and yells at passing subway cars.”

“Alright,” Steve replies resignedly as he opens his eyes. “It’s my winter time beard…”

“Oh, are you preparing to hibernate?” You prop yourself up on his chest and toss Steve a playful look. “Should we fuck once more before you go into a deep sleep? Hold up--is this a frozen super-soldier thing?” You throw your hand up in mock astonishment and feel Steve start to chuckle underneath you, egging you on. “Is this why Bucky hasn’t been shaving either?”

“You’re an asshole.” Steve runs his fingers through your bed-swept hair, pushing it off your face, and you want to live in this corner of the world where his memorable caress and quick sass coincide. 

“You love it.”

You lay your head back down, cradling it in the valley dividing his pectorals, and Steve continues to play with your hair. He massages your scalp, and as he does this, the late afternoon sun creates a golden cast over his body. You eyes flit up towards him, and god, he is beautiful. You feel the steady beat of his heart under your fingertips as if it’s a metronome, tracking the hours you’ve lost tangled up in these sheets and in the feel of his skin against yours. 

“Tell me something true,” you murmur. 

“I made you come four times this morning.”

“False,” you contest. Steve gives you a look of bewilderment, and you grin roguishly. “It was five times.” He laughs then kisses the top of your head, sending a ray of sunshine trickling down to your toes. “What else?”

Steve looks down the line of your body before sliding a hand along the waistband of your panties. “I don’t understand why you sleep in underwear. It’s like you’re trying to torment me.”

“I don’t like to sleep with my bare ass touching the sheets.” 

“But I like to touch your bare ass when you’re asleep,” replies Steve as his hand wanders under the only piece of fabric separating you both. 

“It’s my weird thing, let it go.”

“Fine,” Steve concedes, but not before giving your ass a considerable squeeze. “Your turn. Tell me something true.”

You stretch your limbs along the length of his body, like a cat awaking from a lengthy nap, and his arms encircle your waist, settling them onto the small of your back. You consider the question before answering. “You are the softest, most comfortable body pillow.”

“Jesus Christ, woman…” Steve’s eyes roll back with a blend of contrived hurt and irritation. 

You sit up and straddle his lap. “I mean that in a good way. C’mon, Steve, look at you.” You gesture to the intersection of lines and toned muscle that comprise his midsection. “Who would’ve thought that someone so indestructible would also be so warm and fit me so well?”

“Indestructible?” Steve flicks his eyebrows upward in a show of mild disbelief. “If that were true, you’d be out of a job.”

You don’t say anything, and as the silence slowly suffocates your banter, Steve’s demeanor shifts from relaxed to apprehensive. He slides his back up your headboard, so you’re now seated face to face. “You okay?”

You’d been considering the idea for some time now. Over the past 24 hours, whenever Steve dozed, you’d lain awake and listened to the sound of his breathing. It quieted your headspace enough to mull over what your future entailed. You’d chosen to commit to Steve, and after much thought, it really only left you with only one viable option for your career. You look him in the eye. “I’m going to apply for other jobs.” You shrug matter-of-factly as Steve knits his brow. “You wanted me to tell you something true.”

Steve’s hand glides around your neck, coming to rest at its nape, and you place your knees against each side of his body. You watch him carefully as the concepts marinates, as Steve examines it from each possible angle, until his thoughtfulness comes to a head. “I think that’s a smart decision,” he finally says. “I don’t like it though.”

“I didn’t ask whether you liked it,” you return. “But I love my job, I’m good at it, and I’ve worked too hard to risk getting fired or have my license revoked because you’re my patient and my…” You pause as you consider what exactly to call Steve. 

“Your boyfriend?” he offers.

You flinch at the sound of the word, cringing at its infantilism. “I guess.”

“Am I not your boyfriend?” Steve pulls you closer to him, so there is little, if any, space between you two, and kisses you lightly down the side of your neck. 

“It just sounds so juvenile, like we’re in middle school.” Your eyes drift closed at the feeling of his mouth as it travels down towards your clavicle. “And what you are doing is definitely not something I did in middle school.”

Steve stops, containing a small laugh. “Alright, so what do you suggest?”

“Man friend?”

Nothing hides the flash of disdain in Steve’s eyes, and you kiss him reassuringly. He pulls back and rests his forehead atop yours, and this simple gesture erases any semblance of doubt from your mind that this man is yours alone, regardless of label. 

“Let’s hit pause on this for now,” he suggests, his face still inches from yours. “But, first thing’s first, what do you want to do on our first day off together?”

You arch your back to catch a glimpse of the clock on your bedside table. _3:47p.m._ “Not much time left in the day. I think we’ve used up most of it.”

“There’s one thing we could do.”

“You mean what we’ve been doing since last night?” You trace his jawline with your fingers in lazy strokes, and Steve leans into your touch. 

“There is that,” Steve concedes, “but it’s going to snow later, and that will give me plenty of time to get my fill of you.”

You smirk and rest your forearms atop his broad shoulders, weaving your fingers together at the base of his neck. “True, you do enjoy filling me.”

“Stop it, you’re my doctor.”

“Not funny,” you counter, enunciating each word for emphasis. 

As an idea surfaces, Steve’s blue eyes light up, and they are a whirlpool of sincerity and impishness, a dangerous combination that you have a hard time resisting. “Come swimming with me.”

“No,” you say adamantly, shaking your head. “It’s in the 30s outside.”

“The facility has an indoor, heated pool. No one will be down there,” Steve coaxes, outlining each of your ribs. 

You shoot Steve a sideways glance coated in doubt. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ll lock the door.” Steve pushes the hair aside from your ear and nips at its edge, causing you to gasp. “Perks of being the boss,” he continues, nuzzling his beard against your jaw. You can’t help but giggle at the sensation and swat him lightly away. 

“But why swimming?”

“I feel like it’s a happy medium between how much I want you to be dressed,” Steve cups one of your breasts in his hand before wandering down your side and hooking his thumb onto your underwear, “and how much you want to be dressed.” You refuse to look away from him as he speaks, and man alive, those hands will be your downfall. “And it’s fun,” he adds, dropping the innuendo in favor of wholesomeness. 

“Listen, if this is just a ploy to have pool sex, I’m not into it.”

Steve straightens his back and holds up his right hand, and his emulation of Boy Scout values is incredibly on the nose, to the least of your surprise. “On my honor, this is not a ploy to have pool sex. Although if you change your mind,” he shrugs and gives you a close-lipped smile, “far be it from me to stop you.”

“I won’t change my mind.” You examine his face, an unlikely composition of enthusiasm, coyness, and unwavering confidence, and Christ almighty, there is no saying ‘no’ to this man, especially when he’s avoided getting dressed all day. “I’ll get my swim stuff,” you sigh, climbing off the bed. 

Steve nods, having known you would eventually agree, then follows suit and grabs his boxer briefs from the armchair. “A guy in my unit once told me, ‘Steve, always take a girl swimming on your first date. That way, you can see what she’s really like.’”

Your face twists in a show of disgust. “Ugh, gross.”

“I know, aren’t you glad we just got naked on our first date?” Steve looks over at you as he slides his underwear over his hipbones. 

“Damn straight,” you reply, giving him a high-five. 

* * *

Your body cuts seamlessly through the lane, and as you glide just under the surface, the water sloshes, scatters, then rushes back together like two opposing magnets. Swimming was never your sport of choice, but having spent your summers at your grandparents’ house on the water, it was not only a necessary skill to acquire, but also one that you’ve come to thoroughly enjoy. It leaves you with the sensation of weightlessness coupled with strength, and like going for a long run or performing a surgical procedure, swimming stills the white noise and jumble of thoughts cluttering your brain. Your legs evenly propel you forward, and each long stroke of your arms brings you closer to the other side. Once your fingertips brush the slick tile, you pop up, grabbing the pool’s edge, and use your free hand to clear the chlorine from your eyes. 

“For someone who needed to be convinced to come swimming, you sure seem to be enjoying yourself.” Steve looks down at you, seated on the deck, his legs dangling into the water. 

You rest your arms on the edge, and your elbows prop you up enough so you don’t have to tread water. “And for someone who suggested swimming, you sure seem dry to me.” 

“Hmmm…yes, well, I don’t want to show you up,” Steve challenges, and a sly grin unfurls across his lips. “You know, Avenger,” Steve points to himself, “and lay person,” he gestures towards you, “is hardly fair, wouldn’t you say?”

At hearing this, your competitive drive kicks into high gear, and your eyes narrow. “Get your ass in the water, Rogers.”

Steve hoists himself in, creating a larger splash than necessary, and without thinking, you close your eyes. Steve reaches out to wipe the errant droplets from your cheek, and you grab his hand, effectively putting his effort to a halt. 

“Don’t try to soften me up. Your lane is over there.” You tip your head to the right, and Steve dips his hand below the surface to run his fingers over your bare stomach. You stand firm, refusing to let temptation get the best of you, and watch him as he ducks under the barrier and into his lane. When Steve breaches the surface, he shakes his head and clears the damp, wayward tendrils of hair from his forehead. 

“What are the stakes?”

It doesn’t take you long to think of a wager, but when you do, you smile over at him. “If I win, your swim shorts are mine. And if you win…”

“Your two-piece is mine. _Both_ pieces,” he clarifies, his voice tinged with a stroke of wantonness. 

“Count of three.” You survey the distance in front of you, and peer over at Steve, ready and perched against the wall. “Three, two, one…”

You kick off the wall and immediately become a flurry of limbs and rippling swells. You shoot through your lane, and with each breath you take, your ears fill with the overwhelming sound of your feet and hands, crashing against the water around you, in front of you. Less than a minute passes when your fingers hit the opposing wall, and when you pull yourself up, you glance to your right only to see a still, flat surface. Realization dawns over you, and you turn your head further back to the pool’s far end from which you just swam. There is Steve, arms crossed over his chest, doubled over in laughter. You shake your head, annoyance seeping into your aching lungs at having been successfully duped, and your eyes follow him as he exits the water and walks along the pool’s border towards you. 

“You son of a bitch,” you curse. 

“I told you,” Steve says, lowering himself back into the water so he’s standing opposite you, “it wouldn’t be a fair challenge.”

“Or, you wanted to make me look like a moron.”

“Never,” replies Steve, moving in closer. “But, is it possible that I _wanted_ to hand over my shorts?” He flicks his eyebrows upwards, revealing his straight, white teeth, then glances down, his attention drawn away by something beneath the water. “Are you on your tip toes?”

“Yes. Not all of us are strappingly tall…” Your snarky reply is cut short when Steve lifts you off your feet, and this sudden movement throws off your balance. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and brace yourself against his shoulders. 

“There, much better,” Steve whispers, sliding his hands around to your ass. 

You stare him straight in the eye as one of his hands wanders to the back of your thigh. “We still aren’t having sex in the pool.”

“I gave you my word. I promise.” 

“While I have you in this honest space—and yes, I know you’re always honest—,” Steve smirks at your aside, “I want to ask you something: were you jealous of Cameron the other night?”

“No.”

With your fingertip, you outline the curve of his hairline just behind his ear. “Not even a little?” 

“No,” Steve affirms, the assuredness in his voice apparent. “Why would I be?”

“You sure are confident for someone whose…,” you wrack your brain for the perfect term, “bae….was out with someone else.”

“No to ‘bae,’” Steve responds, without missing a beat. “And honestly, I was not jealous. The only difference between Cameron and me is that he’s too sane to volunteer for a science experiment like I did. If not me, you deserve someone like him.”

You find yourself flailing under the earnestness of his words, his character, and you lower your eyes. “You’re a better person than me.”

“Yes.” Steve’s eyes shine with tenderness, betraying the startling alacrity of his reply. 

You adjust your legs so they press further into his hips. “You’re supposed to say ‘no,’” you playfully scold. 

“But I’m always honest.” He grins, and his lips skim yours. You run your tongue over the empty space previously occupied by Steve before he presses forward. “No, really, what were you going to say?”

“Forget it.”

“Tell me or I’ll find other ways to make you say it.”

You take a breath and hope that in doing so, you’ll swallow the bashful tickle that’s rising in your throat. “You’re a better person than me because I was jealous that night,” you confess. 

Steve cocks his head in amused surprise. “Of who?”

“No one really.” You work your lower lip between your teeth at your half-truth. “Okay, someone. There was a woman who touched you. She put her hand on your chest, and I saw it, and for stupid reasons,” you shake your head, and shame streaks down your spine, “I couldn’t unsee it.”

“Well, in case you didn’t know, _you_ are my person, not her.”

“I know.” 

“Listen, I live in this crazy world filled with gods and superheroes and robots and who the fuck knows what else, and it’s easy to get caught up in all that. But being around you keeps me grounded.” Steve tips your chin up to look at him straight on. “When we’re together, I forget that I’m Cap and remember that I’m, first and foremost, Steve Rogers. That’s why you are my person.”

You clap your hand to his shoulder and let out an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, why do you say things like that and make me feel incredibly inadequate? Like, do you have these perfectly made speeches pre-written then stored in that beautiful head of yours?”

Steve laughs, disturbing the water surrounding you both. “Don’t give me too much credit,” he warns. 

You look at him quizzically and wait for his follow-up explanation. He wraps his arms tighter around your backside. 

“I knew that Cameron was a brief detour and that you’d be with me in the end.” 

The words have barely left Steve’s lips when you kiss him, fully and deeply. Your fingers play with the wet tendrils of hair on the back of his neck as he sweeps his tongue along your inner cheek. Perhaps it’s the coolness of the water or the way Steve’s hands grasp your thighs, pulling you into him, but a series of goose bumps trail down your naked arms, and you shiver under his touch. A startled cry leaves your lips when Steve lifts you out of the pool, placing you firmly on its edge, and you press your palms to the concrete to regain your balance. Not a moment passes before he emerges out of the water, and he’s on you, crushed against you, and the taste of his mouth on yours, salt and chlorine mingled together, hardly satisfies your craving for more of him, so much more.

You feel Steve’s hands play with the knot at the back of your top, steadily undoing the tie with his capable fingers, when you muster up what resolve you have left and pull away. “I’m still not on board for pool sex. But, if you take me to your room,” you grab the waistband of his shorts, “those are mine.”

“A bet’s a bet,” Steve replies, grinning at you wickedly, as he takes your hand and pulls you upright. You stagger your fingers through his and eagerly follow him to the exit door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd never leave my bed if he was in it. Not even being hyperbolic, like, "it's been real, world, but Steve Rogers is horizontal on my mattress, and I've got to do my patriotic duty. Deuces."  
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> I know I say this every time, but it's because I truly mean it: thank you so very, very, very much for the kudos, subscriptions, and comments! And holy crap, we are at Chapter 10, so if you've got an iota of time, leave me any of your thoughts, reactions, or favorite parts (from this chapter or otherwise) in the comments section. Reading them is a great motivator to keep going. :) Thanks team--ya'll are the absolute best.


	11. Recognized

Your feet soundlessly skip up the stairs, taking them two at a time, as water droplets spill from your loose hair and course down your spine. You reach the last landing and come to a stop. You turn, expecting to see Steve’s ascent up the last few steps, and in an instant, his lips are on yours. A smile manifests across your face as his chest leans into your body, and you stroke the thick scruff spanning his cheek with your hand. Without breaking away, Steve reaches for the door handle, and you both stumble out of the stairwell and into an empty hall, your entrance creating a louder racket than intended. 

“Shhh….” Steve instructs as you try to stifle a giggle. 

You swallow the giddiness welling in your chest, and regaining your composure, you take Steve’s outstretched hand. He escorts you through a series of foyers and rooms, all bleeding into one another. In reality, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to work your way back to his apartment, but each time you hear the faint sound of the team padding through their suites, Steve tightens his grip on your palm, an unspoken signal to remain quiet. You stand to the left of him with your back flush against the wall, and when your eyes meet each other’s, your heart quickens; you’re not sure whether it’s the adrenaline or the heady feeling that comes when you’re young and falling for someone. 

Once you cross the threshold into Steve’s apartment, the door shuts with a bang, and Steve grabs you by the waist, pulling you into him. He works your lips between his, and no matter how many times you’ve done this, the way his mouth takes charge is intoxicating. Your hands trace the sloping ridges along his muscular back as he navigates the winding turns on yours. You are about to reach for the drawstring on his shorts, claiming your victory prize, when his hands move over your shoulders and down your triceps. The heat emanating from his touch prompts a tremble out of you, and Steve draws back in concern. 

“You’re cold,” he declares, and you nod, only now noticing the prickled hairs on your arms and the chill creeping across your skin. Steve envelops you in his sturdy grasp and glides his hands back and forth along your arms, putting a concentrated effort into warming you. Your eyes close as you drink in the sensation of his skin on yours, a sensation of which you’re certain you will never tire, when an idea floats to the forefront of your mind. Your eyes lock onto his, and the beginning of a smile traipses across your lips. 

“I think we should take a shower,” you suggest. A flirtatious glint unearths the depth of his blue eyes, and he follows you down the hall and into the bathroom. 

Steve opens the shower door and looks over his shoulder at you as he turns each of the handles. “Ideal temperature?” he asks.

“Hmmm....this side of lava,” you return, imitating a sliding scale with your hands. 

Steve gives a slight shake of his head, and a few damp pieces of hair fall over his temple. “Just when I think you couldn’t get more perfect…” he quips. You inch closer to him, and his eyes follow your fingers as they slide his board shorts down his massive thighs, the material pooling into the bath mat. You’ve hardly done anything, but you lick your lips at the sight of Steve, already partially erect. Your hand closes around his wrist, and you carefully back into the shower. 

Immediately, the scalding jets pepper your backside before hitting the tile basin, you start at the sudden change in temperature. You adjust to the water in a matter of seconds, and the initial shock trickles down your sides and churns with the water as it circles the drain. Your eyes scan the walls, land on a bar of soap, and you grab it, stepping closer to Steve. As you lather his body, you are a contradiction of thorough and languid, drawing concentric circles with your hands as they glide over his abdomen, outlining the rippling sinew of his flawless back, and stroking his growing cock using every inch of your fingers. 

Once you are finished, Steve reaches for the soap, and you are taken by pleasant surprise when he returns it to its holder and instead, folds you into his tight embrace. Between his soaring heat and the blistering spirals rising above you, you feel like you could drift away into the scattering of mist and steam. The feeling of Steve’s lips against your forehead lifts you from your reverie, and he creates a steady path of kisses down to your mouth. Time slows to a crawl as you devour him, falling ever deeper into the confines of his slick body until you are a mesh of converging limbs and billowing desire. You savor how thick and hard his cock is as it digs into your hip. Your open your eyes and track the water as it drips down the angles of his face, catching in his beard, right before his mouth moves over yours. And when Steve tugs at your bottoms, still plastered to your lower half, you place your hands gently over his and pull back, your faces still within inches of each other’s. 

“Did you win our little race?” You reach down and take his heavy erection in your hand. You run your fingers over the base, sliding around the shaft and up to the head. You smile slyly as Steve clamps down on his lower lip. “Or, for the first time, did Cap give up without a fight?” you tease. 

Steve’s crystal eyes darken, like storm clouds brewing in an ominous sky. A chill, composed partly out of fear and partly out of lust, lodges itself in your chest as you wait for Steve’s response. He holds your stare, and you swallow hard while he moves his hand over yours, guiding it up and down his rigid cock. Steve plays the role of navigator perfectly, and you quickly pick up how he enjoys being touched, the pace, the speed. He tilts his head forward and releases you, letting his hands wander under your top. You love watching how his expression changes ever so minutely as you work your hand along his length, how his strong jaw comes unhinged, how his eyes break away and flutter closed when you tighten your grip. And maybe it makes you wicked, but knowing that you can provoke such discernible reactions out of Steve Rogers effortlessly turns you on. 

Having kept his promise, Steve makes no effort to untie the hasty strings holding your top together, but that doesn’t stop him from exploring your breasts, and when he rolls your nipple deftly between his fingers, you inhale sharply. But, to your shock and his, your voice is lost amidst the rushing water and what sounds like muffled knocking. 

You and Steve exchange glances, his mired in curiosity, yours in apprehension, then listen carefully to the click of the lock as the front door swings open. 

“Steve?” The low, deep timber immediately gives it away, and your burgeoning dread dissipates just as fast as it set in. _Bucky_. 

“Yeah?” Steve calls out, his voice carrying into the living room. 

“Why does he have your key?” you whisper, trying and failing to hide your accusatory tone. 

Steve shrugs. “We’ve always given each other spare keys, even when we were in Brooklyn.”

“You guys need to work on your boundary issues.”

“A few of us are ordering takeout from Thai Garden. You want in?” Bucky’s feet shuffle towards the bathroom, each step growing louder and clearer as he continues down the hall. 

Steve clears his throat. “No, Buck, I’m fine. Thanks.” You shoot Steve an incredulous look, and he shrugs, clearly baffled.

“I could eat,” you clarify, dropping your voice to a peep. Steve chuckles and wipes a rivulet of water from your face, running his thumb along your cheek. 

“Actually, Buck?” He briefly glances towards the door. “Can you get some drunken noodles and red curry…”

“Green…” you interrupt. 

“ _Green_ curry?”

You wait for Bucky’s reply, and the quiet and tension bloom with each second that passes; he finally answers. 

“Yeah, sure, no problem.”

You breathe a sigh of relief when you hear Bucky retreat, and propelled by the thrill of nearly being discovered, you smile and softly press your lips to Steve’s. 

“One more thing.” _Goddamnit Barnes._ You roll your eyes. “Ask Doc what she wants to order.” _Shit._

* * *

After you toss the paper wrapper onto the coffee table, you break your chopsticks apart with a snap. You rub the tapered wooden pieces together, ridding each of the hair-like splinters jutting from its sides. At this, the long sleeves of your sweatshirt tumble over your hands, and you futilely roll them back up to your elbows. You look up when a shadow crosses in front of you, and Bucky’s extending a black, plastic container towards you. You graciously accept it and follow him with your gaze as he walks over to Steve, repeating the same motions. Bucky finally seats himself across you both, kicking his legs up on the table’s perimeter. He digs into his dinner with fervor, and while you try to get a read on him, you pop the clear lid off your food, releasing a cloud of tang and spices. The wafting aroma is almost enough to distract you from the situation at hand, but when you see Steve, your attention refocuses. His meal remains untouched, balanced on the width of his thigh, and he’s leaning forward expectantly, waiting for Bucky to spill what he knows. 

Bucky slurps a large bundle of noodles, chews carefully, and points his chopsticks at Steve then at you. “Have you eaten here? The food’s great.” He sets down his utensils and peers into the paper takeout bag, which has been cast to the floor. “The only problem is, they never give me enough Sriracha, no matter how many times I ask for extra on the side.” 

“Buck…” Steve warns. 

“I should just get, like, a gallon of that stuff the next time we make a Costco run,” he muses, returning eagerly to his meal. In his muted exasperation, Steve stares Bucky down, forcing him to look up. “What? Oh, you want to know how I know about you two?”

“Please.” Steve opens his container and uses his chopsticks to stir the assortment of meat, vegetables, and curry. “Humor us.”

Bucky wipes the crumbs from his lips and sets his crumpled napkin down on the arm of the chair. “Well, for starters, Steve, no one brings up their doctor as much as you do in casual conversation. You need to stop doing that.” You scoop a bite of noodles into your mouth and peer over at Steve. His expression is mostly blank, but through his unblinking gaze, you can practically see the cogs and gears turning in his brain. “And two,” Bucky continues, “you’re both terrible at this.”

An avalanche of questions nearly knocks you out. “Wait just a second,” you interrupt. “We’re terrible at being together?”

“What? No, at sneaking around.” 

“Do other people know?” Steve passes his container over to you, focus still on Bucky, and you hand your noodles to him. 

Bucky thinks about the answer, chewing another bite while he works out his reply. “If they do, they haven’t said anything to me. But, if I notice, you can guarantee other people will find out sooner rather than later.”

“How long have you known?” you press, holding a bell pepper between your utensils. 

“I don’t know, a couple of weeks?” Bucky uncaps his water bottle and takes a sip. His eyes dart between you and Steve, and he chuckles at the utter surprise blanketing your features. “I suspected something was up that day at the coffee shop. The entire time we were there, you two were basically walking heart-eye emojis. And then, I saw you guys the other night, you know, at the gala, and people only sneak off from parties for one reason.”

You shake your head, annoyed at both yourself and Steve for how careless you’ve been because now that Bucky mentions it, you really _are_ terrible at this. You recall all the times you’d chosen being together over being cautious: in the pool, in your car, at the gala, in the city, and the list goes on. You gulp. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

Bucky leans back in his armchair, taken aback that you’d even ask. “No, I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t want you to get fired; I just enjoy being kind of an asshole sometimes, mostly to annoy Steve.” You try not to grin at this, but Bucky’s charm gets the best of you. “Don’t worry, I’m going to lock this secret away with the other billions that I’ve got stored,” he promises. 

Steve smiles in acknowledgement. “Thanks Buck,” he says, his disposition oozing sincerity. 

“By the way, you owe Sam $45,” Bucky stops to pick around a cluster of bean sprouts, “And when I say you do, I mean ‘I do,’ but I think my silence buys me some takeout.”

“Punk,” Steve mutters good-naturedly. 

You balance your chopsticks across the top of your makeshift bowl and turn to look at Steve. “I think we should tell Nat, too.” 

Before Steve can respond, Bucky jumps in, the judgment in his voice apparent. “And what good would that do? You know how secrets work, right?”

Your brow narrows at his snarky statement. “Yes, I know how secrets work,” you retort. “But Nat’s my friend, and she’s Steve’s best friend.” Bucky’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to the punch. “ _One_ of Steve’s best friends.”

“And do you want Natasha Romanov realizing that she was purposefully left out of a secret…” adds Steve. 

“As per Bucky Barnes?” you finish, drenching your words in a blend of sass and honey. Steve flashes you a proud smile and high-fives you. 

Bucky stands up, his container now empty aside from a few scraps, and points at you and Steve. “See, this is what I mean. This flirty, food-sharing, teaming-up dynamic of yours gives it all away.” Bucky throws you a hint of a smile as he walks into the kitchen, and you feel a strange sense of comfort when you catch it. 

Steve rests his hand on your thigh, diverting your attention, and squeezes it affectionately. “How do you feel about all of this?” 

You set your food on the table and lean back, tucking yourself into the crook of Steve’s arm. “You know, not as bad as you’d imagine.” Steve holds out a cluster of noodles, chopsticks dangling from his fingers. You beam at him, take the bite, and continue. “Bucky’s lips are sealed, and I can’t fathom Nat would say anything. And you know, who better to have on your side than former KGB associates?”

“And it’ll be good to have them keep us in check, make sure that we’re being discreet,” Steve murmurs. He runs a finger along your collarbone and pushes aside your sweatshirt (really, his sweatshirt if you’re being truthful), stealing a glance at what’s underneath. 

You angle your face so you can see Steve, stopping him in his tracks. “You use that word, but I do not think it means what you think it means.” 

“I understood that reference,” he answers playfully. 

You briefly roll your eyes when you realize that somehow, you’ve bridged any distance separating you from Steve. He smells of soap and fresh linen, and you’re close enough to make out the varying shades of caramel in his scruff when he leans down and kisses you. 

“So, you two are fucking?” 

That gravelly yet feminine voice can only belong to one person: Nat. You can feel Steve smile into your lips as you gradually pull away, and she is seated across from you both, projecting an air of clear amusement. Nat doesn’t give you any time to respond; instead, she holds up her phone, and you can make out a series of blue and grey rectangles staggered across her screen. “Bucky texted me. And the door was unlocked. Not the best idea when you’re trying to keep things on the down low,” she remarks. 

Holding a glass of scotch, Bucky returns to the living room and throws his free hand up towards the ceiling, an act of innocence. “You wanted her to know.”

“And what do you have to say, Agent Romanov?” Steve asks as he scrapes the bottom of his dish, pushing what remains to one side. 

“Honestly?” You nod and slide your abandoned container across the table to Nat. “I think you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it should be,” she says, scooping a helping of rice into the leftover curry. 

Bucky’s befuddled expression speaks for everyone, and upon noticing the unusual silence, Nat swallows an initial bite before resuming her explanation. 

“I mean, everyone here can agree that we have very stressful jobs. So, what’s the harm in releasing some steam every now and then? That’s what this is, right?”

You wait for Steve to jump in with one of his typical answers, one that is comprehensive, heartfelt, and brimming with well-timed pregnant pauses. Instead, he turns towards you, and it’s clear you’re being handed you the baton, you who’s been riddled with questions and internal conflict, you who went out on a date with Cameron, you who’s been indecisive at every turn; Steve’s looking to you to answer. 

“It’s more than that,” you begin, your eyes shifting from Nat to Bucky. You scrounge for the perfect words, but it’s like your brain is shrouded in a rolling fog. You need something that will not just satisfy Nat and Bucky, but something that will make it clear to Steve how you feel about him; that the way he challenges you also excites you and that you could spend your lifetime talking to him, and you’d still believe it would be a lifetime well-spent. Your eyes finally land on Steve, and you say the first thing that comes to mind. “He’s my person.”

With a flick of his eyebrows, a slow smile spreads across Steve’s face, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. This look instills a feeling of warmth, a feeling of belonging, that flows throughout your every fiber. Nat clears her throat, and you and Steve look at her. 

“Alright, I don’t know what that means, but clearly you two are together. Got it.” Nat grabs the glass of amber-liquid from Bucky and takes a swig before handing it back. “Were they like this before I got here?”

“You have no idea,” Bucky sighs deeply, lowering himself into the last open chair. “So what are you guys going to do? Because I mean, you’re…”

“I know,” you interject. You’d barely prepared to tell Steve about your career plans, let alone half of his team, but you decide to bite the bullet; you reach for Bucky’s tumbler, take a sip, then return it to its rightful owner. 

Bucky stares at the remnants of his glass: a few partially-melted ice cubes. “Unbelievable,” he mutters as Steve does a fairly poor job concealing a laugh. 

“I’m going to try to get a new job,” you announce. The level of surprise is tangible, and Nat and Bucky’s eyes move from you to Steve, who nods his head in confirmation. 

“You sure you guys can’t just break up?” Nat laughs, but quickly cuts herself off at seeing the straight expressions plastered across your faces. “Jeez, I was kidding. Tough crowd.”

Steve rises from the sofa to throw away his now-empty bowl and stretches, and you can’t help but notice the way his arms flex as they extend upwards. “I think we’ve had enough discussion about this for one night.”

Bucky takes this as his cue to leave and heads over to Nat, tapping her on the shoulder. “C’mon, you owe me a drink,” he says, setting his empty glass on the table in front of her, his ice clinking against the sides. Nat stands but not before arching a knowing eyebrow in your direction. 

As Steve walks them to the door, you stretch out over the entirety of the sofa, ankles dangling over its arm, considering how today’s events—actually, the events of this past month—have turned your quiet life on its head. You marvel at the near absurdity of it, not that your life was ever simple, but you thought you’d learned to embrace the unexpected; it was well-worn territory that came with working for the Avengers. But not once had you imagined yourself skulking around in Steve Rogers’ hoodie, and even though the foreignness of it still unnerves you, there is something about him, about the two of you when you’re together, that splashes a smattering of color into your existence. 

At the sound of the door shutting, the tension in your body eases, and you direct your gaze towards Steve. He stands motionless, facing you, then approaches, pulling his t-shirt over his head. Each step he takes manages to be lithe yet powerful, like a cougar stalking its prey, and you brace yourself against the cushions, biting your lip in the knowledge of what’s to come. In no time flat, Steve crawls over the edge of the sofa and crushes his lips against yours, his broad chest hovering over your smaller frame. He kisses you with passion, and it is hot, it vibrates with intensity and with life, and it sends a jolt of adrenaline through your veins.

You feel the roughness of his hands against your hipbones, and he pulls your yoga pants down in one fell swoop, your panties with it. His lips leave yours momentarily, and you stare up at Steve while he shoves off what clothing he has left, kicking them onto the floor. You look into his eyes, and they are blown dark with wanting. From the moment he wrapped your legs around him in the pool until right now, watching him throw his shirt to the floor, the slow burn that’s been kindling inside you explodes into a roaring bonfire. You peel your sweatshirt over your shoulders, and your back arches at the feel of Steve’s mouth, moving over the swells of your breasts. What he does with the flick of his tongue nearly sends your eyes rolling back, and as his eyes rush up towards you, Steve smiles and nips at your tender flesh, eliciting a yelp. 

Even in your current, taut state, you know that it is not enough to feel the sheer magnitude of him pressing down on you or the sweep of his tongue against your smooth skin; you need to feel him inside you, moving with you. You lower your hands and grab Steve by his waist, your eyes locking onto his. Words are superfluous at this point, and he sits up, parts your knees, and positions himself at your slick entrance. You crave that first stroke, the one that you know is coming and nevertheless causes you to gasp when it hits you, but Steve enters you slowly, one inch at a time. The wait is excruciating, and you whimper in frustration because goddamnit, after the near hours of foreplay, you want—no, _need_ —Steve to fuck you. Once he is fully inside, he pauses, unmoving, and grins at you like a Cheshire cat. He leans over, resting his weight on the palms of his hands, so you can feel the bristle of his beard against your cheek. 

“I’m your person,” Steve whispers into your ear. 

You stare at him and sweep your fingers over the outline of his face, and good lord, he is just so ruggedly handsome. “You’re my person.”

You cry out, your voice filling the room, when he thrusts into you because this time feels different than the others. Any pretense of tenderness evaporates as he moves in and out of you, as if spurred on by your confirmation that you are his. Each thrust hits you at your very center, and you brace yourself against Steve, one hand pressed against his ribcage and the other gripping the top of his shoulder blade. The pace he sets is fast, unyielding, and far from gentle, and you love every second of it, in only the way you can when you trust someone wholly and completely. Steve wraps his arm under your thigh, and the angle changes, pushing him deeper yet. A groan stumbles forth from your lips, and you press your knees into his sides, causing Steve to drop his head into your shoulder at the feeling of this tighter fit. His breathing is ragged and hot against your skin, and as he buries himself into you, you can feel his muscles tense under your fingertips. He is close, and as you take the full force of his cock, you are too. 

You lower your hand between your legs, and you touch yourself in a way that you know will get you off. Steve glances down, and his focus is rapt around your fingers as they expertly run back and forth across your clit. Steve thrusts into you several more times, his rhythm becoming increasingly sporadic, until he comes with a guttural shout. You are close behind as your body pulses around him, pleasure radiating from your core, down your legs, and concentrating itself in your toes. Steve can’t tear his eyes from you, and you can tell from his smile that he relishes in how your breathing slows, how your hair cascades onto the cushion beneath you, and how your body glistens under his. 

You lift your head up so your forehead leans into his. “I'm your person,” you breathe. 

“You're my person,” Steve returns and presses his lips to yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually have lots of words at my disposal, but when it comes to Steve Rogers, I've got nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm pretty sure this gif has made me pregnant.  
> 
> 
> 1\. You all write the absolute BEST comments, and I adore reading each and every one of them (100% true). Whether it's a reaction, a critique, or your favorite part--please, pretty please, keep them coming.  
> 2\. I can't believe this fic has over 5K hits. That is fucking bananas. I love it.  
> 3\. I'm headed back to work soon (yes, I'm a teacher), so I'm leaning towards weekly updates. Once I have a better grasp of what day that'll be, I'll let ya know.  
> 4\. Thanks for the kudos and subscriptions! I hope you keep enjoying the story. :)


	12. Reprimanded

There are several downsides to snow: a few wayward flakes can shut down an entire interstate, it melts into a gray, icy slurry that spills over sidewalks and soaks through your shoes, and too much of it conjures a feeling of suffocation and stagnancy. But, no matter what, you love the first few snowfalls of the season, and this year, they are brilliant. Each passing storm blankets the entire grounds of the facility in quilt after quilt of white, tree branches slope under the mounds of accumulation, and with it, comes a contented stillness, a rare feeling in an atmosphere accustomed to chaos and endless activity. Over these past few weeks, you’ve come to view these storms as punctuation marks for your time with Steve, the hours spent talking into the early morning a comma, the way his body warms you from the threat of chill a semi-colon. 

And this morning, as you lower your earphones, you trace the frost coating your window because few things are better than sitting in the toasty afterglow of a long run while peering at the snow globe beyond the glass. 

Wordlessly, Steve’s long arms encase you from behind, his chest pressing into your back. You smile and nuzzle your head against his sturdy tricep, breathing in deeply. His touch isn’t the only thing that’s become familiar to you; his smell is both comforting and revitalizing, like the smoky wisps of burning firewood that puncture the December air. And today of all days, you could use a bit of comfort. 

“How is it that your body is hot to the touch,” Steve whispers into your ear, nipping at its edge, “but your clothes,” his hands move over the spandex covering your thighs, “are frozen?”

You whip around and rest your palms against his abdomen, a flimsy excuse to grope the rows of unyielding muscle. “Is Captain America really asking me how ice and cold work? Well, strap in, because it’s time for some science…”

Steve doesn’t give you the chance to finish your cheeky quip, silencing you with his lips. His scruff brushes lightly against the corners of your mouth, and your hands move over his chest, coming to a stop at the top of his broad shoulders. The sweetness of the kiss doesn’t diminish the urgency rising from it; Steve grazes the patch of exposed skin between your Under Armor before moving further south, grabbing a handful of your ass. You smile helplessly, but nevertheless break away. 

“I don’t have time for _that_ today,” you murmur, reaching behind and repositioning his hands onto your hips. 

“2 minutes,” he promises. “It’ll be quick.”

“With you, it’s never quick.” 

“What if I just put it in a little?” 

You laugh because his tenacity is not without its charm. “With you, it’s never just a little,” you reply, your mouth caressing his. 

He gives you a prolonged, exaggerated sigh, but his eyes spark with frivolity, undermining his contrived annoyance. “Alright,” he says, untying himself from you. “Let me make you some coffee then.”

As you walk down the hall, you unzip your jacket and yank away the stretchy material as it fruitlessly clings to your drenched base layer. You peel that off next and hang both pieces in your closet, scribbling a mental memo to throw them for wash once they’re dry. You pass the bathroom on the way back toward the kitchen, and grabbing a towel, you wipe the streams of sweat beading down your collarbone and sternum. 

After shutting off the faucet, Steve turns around, coffee pot in hand. His eyes move down your body, slowing as it scans over the cleavage peeking out from your sports bra. “Well this is just unfair…” he mutters. 

“My house, my rules,” you grin, pulling up a stool at the counter. 

You lay the damp towel over your knee while Steve returns to the task at hand. The aroma of freshly ground beans floats through the air, and the inviting smell makes it easy to ignore the grating drone of the grinder. And at the center of this scene stands Steve, opening cabinets, shutting drawers, clad in only his low-slung sweatpants. You revel in everything about this sight—the deep crevices dividing his back muscles, the way his bottoms leave little to your imagination—but what takes you most by surprise, is how natural Steve looks here in your quaint, carved-out corner of the world. 

The steady drip of the percolating coffee fills the room, and Steve turns to face you. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not.” At hearing this, Steve tilts his head and raises his brow, and he doesn’t need to say anything more for you to change course. “Alright, I am,” you admit sheepishly. “How’d you know?”

Steve leans over the countertop, forearms flat against its surface, so you’re eye-to-eye. “You’ve got your tells.” 

“Like…

He grabs your left hand and runs his thumb over the outer part of yours, stroking the rough, jagged skin around your nail. “Like, you pick your cuticles when you’re working through a problem that you don’t want to tell me about.” Your head drops in complete acknowledgement of this, and Steve continues. “Or you sneak out for a run at 5:30 to clear your head.”

You wrap your fingers through his apologetically. “I wasn’t sneaking out. You could’ve come with me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “That was a poor choice of words. All I meant was that I know when you need some alone time, and as much as I like chasing you down on our runs,” Steve pauses and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, “it’s important for you to do what you need to prepare.” 

“Thank you.” You inch closer towards him, your noses touching, and you wish you could slow the ticking minutes and simply stay here. 

The sharp, persistent beep of the coffee maker interrupts your conversation, and Steve grabs your favorite mug off its hook and pours you a cup. He sets it down in front of you then opens the fridge and slides the carton of milk across the counter. You’re about to ask for a spoon, but before you can utter a word, Steve reaches into the far drawer, coming to a stop when he drapes a teaspoon across the top of your steaming cup. 

“Impressive, Rogers,” you comment as you lift the cover off the sugar bowl. 

Steve reaches his hand to his shoulder, giving it a casual swipe. “I’m not just a hot body for you to ogle.”

“Don’t worry,” you assure him while stirring milk and sugar into the hot brew. “You’re that, too.” 

His endearing chuckle drifts through your galley kitchen, and his expression slowly changes into one that is heartfelt and cautious. “Do you want to tell me what you’re going to say?” he offers.

You sip your coffee carefully, and the bitterness cuts a straight path to your brain, jumpstarting it into action. You set your mug back down and outline the rim with care, then look at Steve. “No, I think I’m okay. Let’s just change the subject for now.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grabbing a mug for himself. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“You.” 

“You already have me. Try again.”

“I don’t know,” you mumble after taking another gulp. “But I have a confession to make actually. It’s serious,” you divulge, dropping the tenor of your voice. 

At this point, Steve knows you well enough not to snatch the bait, and he grins while taking a long draw from his cup. “Oh yeah? Confess.” 

You lean forward, your stool balancing precariously on its two front legs. “I’m not that into Christmas,” you whisper. 

“You’re a monster,” Steve deadpans before you both break out into a flurry of giggles. “I’m not judging,” he says once you’ve collected yourselves, “but I want to know why.”

You drain what’s left in your mug and rise from the counter. “I guess as an adult, it’s just lost most of the magic for me. It’s stressful to shop for people, and when it comes to me, I’m at the point in my life where I can just buy what I want.” You walk over to the sink and set your cup inside the basin, then adjust your stance so you’re facing Steve. “But, I’m not a total monster. I love New Year’s.”

He knits his brow in surprise and hastily swallows a mouthful of coffee. “Okay, now I’m judging. Who in their right mind enjoys New Year’s over Christmas? Do you work for Hydra? When you fall asleep tonight, if I whisper ‘hail Hydra’ in your ear, will you salute?” 

You roll your eyes dramatically and turn on your heel to head for the shower, but Steve grabs your hand, pulling you into him. You stop from crashing into his towering figure by steadying yourself against his barrel of a chest, and you inadvertently meet his knowing smile. 

“I’m just of the opinion that New Year’s is more special than Christmas,” you explain, dragging your fingers over his clavicle. “Christmas is a lot of Santa and reindeer and presents—and that’s all well and good—but it’s kind of fantasy-like. But New Year’s is…” you stop, searching for the precise words. “It’s realistically romantic. It’s about beginnings and newness, and even as an adult, there is something magical about pure potential.”

Holding you at the waist, Steve stares down at you and smiles. “That’s adorable. You’re wrong, but adorable.” Steve’s face lights up with a glimmer of enthusiasm. “What about a nice spa package?”

“Cheesy,” you reply as you break away from his hold and head down the hall. 

“Jewel…”

“No,” you cut him off, half-annoyed at his playful suggestions and half-hoping that he is, indeed, being facetious. 

“I’ll think of something,” Steve calls out, finishing the last few drops of his coffee, as you cross the bathroom threshold. 

You reach down to pull your bra over your head and stop yourself as the caffeine starts to take hold, plucking your nerves rather than calming them. You pop your head out the doorway, and over the rim of his cup, Steve returns your gaze. 

“Steve? Can you listen to my speech?”

In response, he sets his mug on the counter with a clink, and a genial smile materializes on his angular face, his cheeks rising upward. “Go for it.”

* * *

“I’ve enjoyed my time working for you, Ms. Potts, and treating the team as well as the staff here at the Avengers Headquarters, but right now, I think I need a change of pace.” Underneath the desk, away from the watchful eyes of Pepper and Maria, you wipe your hands across your scrubs before taking up where you left off. “I plan to apply for open positions at other hospitals, and I wanted to give you both full disclosure prior to starting any kind of application process. And I was hoping,” your eyes move between the two women sitting across from you, “that I could list you both as references or request letters of recommendation.” Immediately, your shoulders feel lighter, your muscles in them ease back into place, and a new swell of anxiety sets in as you await their response. 

Pepper glances at Maria, exchanging genuine surprise, then back at you. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting this. If this is a compensation issue, we’d be more than willing to discuss your salary…”

“No, no…”

A look of apprehension skips across Pepper’s delicate features. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: is this because of Cameron? Did I make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No,” you shake your head adamantly. “Honestly, I’d like to look for other positions that will better align with my personal and professional goals, that’s all.”

Maria projects your personnel file, and the blue-tinted hologram floats above the conference table, detailing your work record, your list of patients, vacation time accrued, and anything and everything that’s relevant to your time spent working at the facility. Because she is always professional, a knot of dread forms in your stomach when you see a grimness flicker in her eyes.

“As far as the references or letters of recommendations go, I think I can speak for both Ms. Potts and myself when I say that we’d be more than willing to do that for you. However…” Maria circles a short paragraph on your file, zooming in on the text, which you read with care.

_…Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes injured during a covert mission…underwent surgery…the attending physician signed a clean bill of health when Barnes was otherwise impaired….disciplinary action enacted…_

You sit there silently, synapses firing in your brain as it connects these various threads of information, and the knot of dread doubles in size. You hold back a deep sigh that’s threatening to rush forth from your lips.

“So, as far as I understand, I am welcome to search for other jobs; however, any letter of recommendation written or references given on my behalf will outline the disciplinary action I received following Sergeant Barnes’ surgery and treatment.”

Maria nods solemnly at this, and her eyes shoot you a sign of apology.

“But, I will level with you,” says Pepper as she folds her hands across the tabletop. “You’ve done everything we’ve asked of you since the incident and have continued to provide excellent care to your patients. There are only six weeks left in your disciplinary action plan. If you can hold off from seeking any new opportunities, we will expunge that section from your file once the three months have elapsed.”

Your back straightens, and your mood perks at this enticing piece of information. “I’d be able to find a job and secure your recommendation without mention of any of this?” you ask hesitantly, gesturing towards the hologram. 

“Yes,” Pepper confirms with a grin. 

The outcome isn’t ideal, but that hardly crosses your mind, and you gladly agree to the outlined terms, shaking both women’s hands. Maria and Pepper remain in the conference room, and before the door latches behind you, you hear them speaking in hushed tones, quietly discussing your possible vacancy. You head down the corridor towards your office, and a sensation of lightness marks your gait. _What’s another six weeks?_ You try to temper your expectations; you haven’t even begun to look for any openings, but your mind has already started shuffling through a range of promising snapshots: taking Steve home to meet your family, holding hands whenever you damn well please, hell, even picking out cereal from Trader Joe’s together without fear of being seen. 

Needless to say, you are completely distracted as you nearly bypass Allison, your administrative assistant, waving to snag your attention. You backtrack towards her and will your increasingly hot cheeks to cool down.

“Sorry about that,” you apologize, coming to a full stop in front of her desk. “My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?”

“Captain Rogers is waiting in your office. I told him you were in a meeting, but he said it was urgent,” she recalls with a twinge of irritation. 

“Got it. Thank you, Allison.”

“He sure is persistent,” Allison muses, returning to her computer screen. “Kind of a pain in the ass in that way.” 

You contain the strong urge to laugh, and instead nod agreeably. “I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

At the sound of your door swinging open, Steve rises swiftly from the chair and crosses the short distance separating you in a couple of long strides. His eagerness is endearing, and you place your hands atop his shoulders, fighting the temptation to pull him closer to you. 

“So, how’d it go?” His eyes search yours expectantly, and you decide to play coy with him, tease him a bit longer before breaking the news. 

“It was…intriguing.” Your pager beeps, piercing the air, and Steve shifts impatiently as you unclip it from your waistband. You peer at the screen, and your eyes widen with a hint of fear right before your mind and body snap into motion; Steve was right, you do have tells, and it is uncanny how he picks up on them. 

“What is it?” His voice lags behind you as you rush out of your office. You glance towards the elevator and make the instant decision to take the stairs instead, relying on your speed over your patience. “Tell me,” he insists over the echo of your feet as you set a rapid pace towards the ground floor. 

Your mind races through a series of protocol and action plans that for a second, you are distracted enough to give Steve an honest answer. “It’s Sam.” The second you blurt it out, you are filled with a tidal wave of regret as Steve’s large figure goes flying past yours and out the stairwell exit. 

“Steve!” you shout, but you know it is futile as his body becomes a tiny speck in the distance. You channel your energy into sprinting across the snow-covered grounds. The chill bounces off your skin, the trees and the courtyard and the staff blur together, and the doors to the training center are already flung open when you bound inside. You run towards the team, standing in a tight circle in the middle of the expansive room, but you can make out the crumpled figure at its very center. 

“Move,” you demand, shoving Clint off to the side as you break through the barrier of people. You look down, and there is Sam, wings snapped in two distinct pieces, and sprawled out on the floor, unconscious and unmoving. Steve crouches over him, brow tight with worry, but you gloss over that fact and focus on Sam. You bend down next to him, lifting his eyelids to check his pupils for dilation, and as you work your way through an initial examination, you start delegating tasks. Nat’s earpiece springs to life as she summons the EMTs, Wanda hurries down a corridor to grab a set of clean towels, and you’re about to check Sam’s heart beat when Steve stands, jaw clenched, cheeks taut. _Steve, don’t…_

“What happened?” 

You lower your stethoscope, noting Sam’s steady yet weakened heartbeat, when a thick silence descends on the room. Eyes bounce from person to person. A surge of frustration threatens to spill out of you because now is not the time for blame; however, you choose to keep your mouth shut and continue to monitor Sam, taking out your phone and recording his vitals.

Rhodes, who you hadn’t noticed when you first entered, steps in closer, and his softened voice cracks the deafening silence. 

“It was an accident,” he murmurs. “A repulsor ray hit his wings, and…” Rhodes shuts his mouth, partially out of guilt and partially because as Steve’s face darkens, Rhodes knows better than to finish his explanation. Time seems to slow to a standstill, and you watch Steve approach Rhodes out of the corner of your eye, your attention torn between tending to Sam and stopping Steve from adding to this hurricane of events. 

“Steve,” Bucky warns, putting his hand on Steve’s forearm. “It was an honest…”

The crash of Steve’s fist against Rhode’s flesh sends a deadly crack into the air. Nat and Bucky move to hold Steve back, but remarkably, the sound has yanked you to your feet, and you wedge your way in. You stand between him and Rhodes, who’s holding the side of his face, a wince narrowing his eyes so they’re nearly shut, and you stare up at Steve, eyes blazing. You feel heartened by the sound of EMTs rushing to Sam’s side, but your chest heaves in frustration at this hot-headed idiot standing in front of you. Steve leans in closer, enough so only you can notice it, enough to try to intimidate you into moving aside, and the freeze from his glare attempts to melt your wall of resolve. 

“Sergeant Barnes.” You place your hands on your hips, your attention nevertheless glued to Steve. “Remove Captain Rogers from the premises.” Bucky looks from Steve to you, and his indecision scrapes away your last ounce of patience. “Now,” you command. 

As you turn away, you can feel the anger vibrating in Steve’s footfall as Bucky leads him out of the room. You brush this observation aside, swallowing it in a large gulp, and check on Sam. The EMTs move with incredible efficiency as they load him onto a stretcher, and you hurry over towards them, reading Sam’s vitals from your phone screen to confirm their findings. Once you are satisfied that Sam’s en route to the hospital, you mosey back towards Rhodes. Blood trickles down his hand, now lowered at his side, and a deep gash runs along his cheekbone. 

“How’s it look, Doc?” Rhodes gives you a small smile, and after what just happened, it is refreshing not to feel like the only adult in the room. You return his smile, yours filled with reassurance. 

“In my professional opinion, I think you’ll survive.” You reach your hands into your coat pocket and snap on your gloves. “Let’s get you stitched up.”

* * *

You knock softly on the heavy door before walking through, not asking for permission to enter but rather alerting those inside to your arrival. An older woman sits in a chair next to Sam’s bed, hands wrenched across her lap, while another woman, younger, probably close to your age, stands in front of the large, glass window, focus glued to the sleeping man. You introduce yourself, using your cadence to pacify their worry as much as you can. 

“I’m Pamela Wilson, Sam’s mother,” says the seated woman as you shake her hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Wilson.” 

The other woman, dark eyes and ringlets of curls about her shoulders, moves away from the window and stops next to the chair, extending her palm out to you. You take it. “I’m Alexa, Sam’s girlfriend.” 

While your exterior is the essence of calm, a film of surprise blankets your interior, and you inwardly smile. Sam, who always strikes you as the most open of the team, never mentioned that he had a girlfriend. _I guess everyone’s got their secrets._

“I wanted to update you on Sam’s condition,” you begin, glancing over at him. “We ran a series of x-rays, CT scans, and MRIs on him over the past few hours, and the good news is that nothing seems to be broken in regards to his spinal cord.” You pause as Alexa and Pam exhale in relief, the younger woman placing her hand lovingly into the other woman’s. “Because his wings broke his fall, it seems to have absorbed most of the impact. However, he has a concussion and some ligament strains, meaning that he’ll be out of commission for the next couple of weeks.”

Pam looks at you, eyes glassy with an amalgam of worry and consolation. “Will he need rehab?”

“Possibly, but Sam’s definitely going to have to sit out on a few missions.”

“That’s fine,” Alexa assures you. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure, and it’s my job,” you reply, shrugging your shoulders. “I’ll leave you all to get back to Sam. And you know where to find me if you have any questions.”

You exit right and quickly shuffle down the hallway towards the attendings’ workspace, and your mind leaps from one tab to the next in your cluttered browser of a brain. You remind yourself to pull up Sam’s file and notate the conversation with his family, after which you’ll call Rhodes to see how he’s doing, followed by rounding on the rest of your patients. Your brisk pace comes to a sudden halt when your shoulder collides with what feels like a granite slab, and Steve stares down at you, stoic and cold. 

“Do you have a minute?”

Your eyes travel up and down the hallway, interspersed with nurses, patiently ambling towards their rooms, and doctors on their rounds. “Let’s not do this here,” you caution. At this, Steve grabs your arm, and you follow him into an empty room. As soon as the door closes, you shake off his hand. 

Steve stands over you, his presence quiet yet demanding. “Who do you think you are?”

Your simmering anger towards him rises like a high tide. “I’m the one who stopped you from breaking Rhodes’ jaw today,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You don’t get to call the shots when it comes to _my_ team.”

“And you don’t get to cause bodily harm when it comes to _my_ patients. Now, get out of my way.” You move to your left in an effort to bypass him, but Steve shifts his weight, blocking your path. 

“No,” he seethes. 

“Captain,” your voice drops to a dangerously low octave, “if you don’t move, I will use all of my training to break every bone in your body.”

Steve’s mouth curls into a defiant sneer. “Oh, I’d love to see you try.”

“See, here’s the thing about you, Cap.” It’s your turn to bridge what little distance separates you and Steve, and you lean in, close enough that you can see the faint series of lines stretching over his forehead. “You walk around here, doing whatever you want without consequence, and wow, what a goddamn privilege to be able to act that way.” Your voice drips with sarcasm. “But you aren’t going to use that to make me feel bad for doing my job.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you act without consideration for anyone else. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been like this. Don’t like it when I tell you about your broken ribs? Storm out of my office. Want Barnes to go on a mission when he’s hurt? Force my hand to sign his clearance. Angry that Sam is injured? Attack Rhodes. I spend the morning redirecting the course of my career? You don’t raise a finger to stop and consider if I’m the only one who should be making sacrifices.”

“If you want to lecture me about life-altering decisions and making sacrifices, this is an argument you won’t win,” Steve warns, and although his tone no longer carries a threatening weight, the casualness of it seems to amplify its menace. 

“I know what you’ve done,” you spit, “and that makes it all the more frustrating. Imagine committing to someone, and you are crazy about them, like, drown-in-their-words, risk-everything-so-you-can-wake-up-next-to-them kind of crazy.” You can’t help it as your voice catches with affection, yet you continue. “But, this person, who has history books written about their sacrifices, refuses to budge for _you_. Imagine how that makes me feel, Steve.”

You watch his face and can almost see the neurons leaping and bounding until realization dawns on his exquisite face. “What are you asking me? To give up my career? To stop being Cap?”

“No, I just don’t want to feel like I’m the only one making concessions…”

Steve thrusts his hands into his pants’ pockets as if to bury his rage. “Let’s talk about privilege if you want to talk about privilege. You have the luxury of working anywhere. I don’t.” He leans down so you can feel his breath on your cheek. “And if you can’t see that, then you’re the one who’s selfish.”

The words hit you like a slug to the chest, but you stand tall, refusing to move from your spot as your body absorbs the full impact of hurt. You swallow and stare up at him. “If that’s all you have to say, I’ve got to get back to work.” You turn on your heel and reach for the door handle. 

“I won’t be there when you get home.”

You look back at Steve over your shoulder. “Good. Because if this is who you really are,” you sweep your hands through the air, outlining his large figure, “then you can go fuck yourself if you think I'm going to give up my career for this person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this beautiful, stubborn asshole.  
> 
> 
> A few things before I leave...  
> 1\. Alright, so I'm officially back to work (as in my real job, what I do to pay my bills), meaning that this story will continue. But, updates will happen over the weekend, most likely on Saturdays or Sundays.  
> 2\. Ahhh, thank you all so much for the kudos, comments, hits, and subscriptions! I probably sound like a broken record, but it is really encouraging to know that people are enjoying this story, hopefully, as much as I enjoy writing it. You. Are. All. The. Goddamn. Best.  
> 3\. Life is nuts right now, but I still enjoy hearing from each of you. Take a second, drop a line, tell me what you think of this chapter or the story. :)


	13. Quarreled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the following:
> 
> 1\. The delay in posting this! My beau and I went away for the weekend to attend a wedding, and we were busy tearing up the dance floor and eating way too much cake. Again, chapters will be posted on Saturdays or Sundays...it just didn't happen this past weekend. Sorry!
> 
> 2\. For the content of this chapter. Eeeeeek.

Nina leisurely breaks the white frosted leg off her gingerbread man and lets the piece dangle between her fingers before biting off its crisp, molasses foot. She swipes the flecks of crumbs from the couch crevices, her silence taunting your patience, when she finally offers a response. “I can’t believe you’re dating fucking Steve Rogers,” she replies as she reaches for her wine glass. 

You sigh. After pouring your heart out for the past twenty minutes, you expected a little more from her. “ _Was_ dating. And that’s your takeaway?”

“Look, I’m a pathologist.” Nina peels a sugar-coated cinnamon drop from the cookie and pops it in her mouth. “I can bisect a morsel of tissue, point to a dot that’s no bigger than a period, and be like, ‘You see that? That’s cancer.’ But I couldn’t see that the tall hunk of Grade A, beefy _man_ you brought to my Halloween party was Captain America? Fuck. What does that say about me?”

You prop your feet under the array of decorative throw pillows. “It says that you were somewhere between drunk and far-gone at your party,” you observe. “And that Steve Rogers is quite adept at navigating between being Cap and being himself.”

“So what now? You didn’t come all the way into the city just to drop off Christmas cookies.”

“I always make holiday cookies…”

“No,” she wags her hand in front of your nose, and her bracelets glint under the track lighting. “Cookies are surface-level. You came here for something else, besides admitting that you are—were? —dating Steve. What is it?”

As long as you’ve known Nina, she has always been the most polarizing of your friends: people either love her or hate her, and there is no in-between. And it is mostly because, in spite of how flighty she may seem at times, Nina has this strange ability, a near super power, where she slices through any distractions and can pinpoint a problem, point out a flaw, or provide the most astute observation. It’s what makes her a great doctor, a deadly enemy, but most of all, an excellent friend in times of crisis. And she’s right; you drove here knowing that if anyone could help you sort your way through this mess of a flailing relationship, it was her. 

“Steve and I haven’t spoken since our fight.” She nods her head, and you take this as an unspoken signal to continue. “And that was, god, over a week ago.”

“Don’t you see each other at work?”

“Yes,” you answer as you take a sip of your Riesling, and you cringe at its cloying sweetness. “But it’s uncomfortable. I’ve been dodging him when I can.”

Nina takes a long draw from her glass then returns it to the coffee table. “Has he called you? Or you him?”

Your hand disappears into your back jeans pocket until you hold up your phone. Nina’s eyes glide over the screen as she reads through your call log, and Steve’s name repeats several times over in a vibrant red font. “I haven’t picked up,” you clarify, “But I’ve wanted to.”  


“Well, I know why you’d want to pick up. I mean, just look at him,” she says, half in jest. “And from what you told me, it sounds as if things were going well up until recently.” Nina turns her body so that she’s facing you completely. “What I want to know is what’s stopping you from answering his calls,” she finishes. 

You pause, recalling the total iciness of Steve’s demeanor and the pace at which it set in amongst that sterile hospital room, disfiguring him to the point of unrecognition. Those hands that tiptoed over your soft tracts of skin were the same ones that balled into tight, impenetrable fists at his sides. Steve’s muscular frame, which excited you when hovering over your body and bed sheets, had stretched over your person, colonizing your space. And as you stood there, Steve’s anger challenging your judgment and ethics, something inside you cracked when you heard _You’re the one who’s selfish_. You shake your head at this memory, as if doing so is the antidote to its undiluted and raw sting. 

“It’s a few things,” you begin. “Like, you think you know what it’s like to date Cap, but what people don’t realize is that he’s just as flawed as anyone else. That impulsive bravery that makes him such a lauded hero? That makes him say things that are so incredibly hurtful. Or the steadfast loyalty that everyone fawns over? That also makes him blind to seeing things from anyone else’s perspective.” You are on a roll, the words tumbling out of you, and it feels like a boulder is being lifted from your chest. “During that fight, it felt like it wasn’t even Steve that was standing there. It was such a different side of him, an awful side of him, that it’s hard for me to reconcile that.”

Resting her head against her knuckles, Nina stares at you intently, having known you long enough and well enough to realize that you’re still holding back. “And?”

“And more than anything,” you lace your fingers through your hair, parting it off to the side, “I’m sick of feeling like I’m the only one willing to compromise in this relationship. I stand to lose so much, and his life gets to stay as is.” 

Without wasting a second, Nina scoots over the length of the couch and wraps her arm tightly around you. “I’m sorry, love,” she says with total compassion. “But, you know that I’m not someone who’s going to give you only sympathy. I’m going to give you some brutal honesty—you know that right?”

You smile a little as you reach for a cookie and take a bite of an ill-fated snowman. “It’s one of your best qualities, and it’s why I’m here,” you confess. 

“Marriage…”

“No one is talking marriage here, Nina…” you interrupt, your mouth full of gingerbread. 

“Shut up and listen,” she says, holding up her hand. “Marriage, or any other kind of commitment, works when people are willing to compromise and meet in the middle. Take me and Theo for instance. I hate Manhattan. Would move to L.A. in a second if I could. But, Theo’s from the Village and loves everything about this island. And because I love him, I’m willing to stay here, and because he’s with me, he lets me decorate and design this townhouse as I please.”

You twist a napkin between your fingers, letting Nina’s story marinate, then look over at her. “That is simultaneously heartwarming and straight out of an HGTV episode.” Nina rolls her eyes and shrugs, and you instantly feel guilty for your dismissive comment. “But I know what you mean, and that helps,” you add, resting your head on her shoulder. 

You and Nina sit in companionable silence, and your attention is drawn to the muted T.V. mounted on the opposite wall. You watch the images flicker across the screen until Nina’s voice brings you back. “I know I told you not to fuck this up. But, you didn’t. Steve did. And I’m glad you know your value well enough to stand your ground.” Nina gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and suddenly, it’s as if you’ve taken a time machine back to your days of unkempt dorm rooms and tipsy, 3 a.m. heart-to-hearts. “And don’t let Steve fucking Rogers make you believe you’re worth anything less.”

“Thanks Neen.” You look out the large bay windows, and gray and navy hues bleed into one another, turning the sky into the ombre shade of evening. You flick your wrist, your eyes grow large when you read the time, and you vacate your toasty spot on the couch. “I appreciate you letting me hang out, but I’ve got one last delivery to make.” 

“Well, if you aren’t doing anything for Christmas, you’re always welcome to come here,” Nina groans as she raises her slender arms up towards the ceiling in a lazy stretch. She slumps back down onto the sofa, collapsing into a pile of Lululemon apparel and folded legs. 

“I’d love to,” you reply, walking towards the closet. “But I’m flying home for Christmas. I’ve got my fam to see.” You loop your scarf around your neck, and from across the room, your almond-shaped eyes are the only feature peering out from behind the stacked, knitted material. 

“Tell them I say ‘hi.’” 

“Will do,” you reply. You tie the belt around your cream-colored coat into a knot, cinching it at the waist, then slide your feet into your knee-high boots. “Thanks again. For everything.” You shoot her a look, and it’s one wrapped in appreciation and nostalgia. 

Nina looks up from her cozy spot on the couch and smiles at you. “Hey, anytime you want life advice, just bring me cookies and a bottle of wine.”

“Got it,” you say, nodding as if to cement that agreement. “Bye Nina.” And with that, you shut the door behind you. 

On the way back into the suburbs, you hit a few patches of late-December traffic where your drive slows to a crawl, but your time spent in the warmth of your car gives you refuge from the mad-dash speed of the holiday season. In less than 48 hours, you’ll be in the comfort of your childhood home, and while Christmas doesn’t exactly thrill you, building Lego sets with your bouncing nephew and staying up late playing Cards Against Humanity with your siblings does. You smile in anticipation and allow yourself to bask in the excitement of the days to come. As the traffic eases up, you weave through the lanes, and your mind follows closely behind, Steve with it. Every time it tails you, that nagging feeling that it’s you who needs to fix things, you shove it down. The onus is on Steve to make things right, Captain America or not. You owe him nothing, and he owes you everything. 

You pull up alongside the curb in front of the Tudor-style house, grab the last tin of cookies from your front seat, and start up the winding walk, carefully avoiding the slick, icy patches en route to the porch. You hear a long howl sandwiched by low, half-hearted barks, and as the front door opens, you can see Penny’s long ears swaying back and forth, keeping perfect time with her jostling tail. You wave to her, but your enthusiasm wanes as you see Steve’s large, familiar outline against the door frame _Of course he’s at Garrett’s for Christmas._ You take the last few steps, continuing to chastise yourself for failing to entertain this possibility, and come to a full stop on the landing. 

“Merry Christmas, Pen.” You bend down to greet her with a scratch under her chin. As you stroke back her velvety ears, your eyes start up towards Steve, finally meeting the blues of his. Gone is the frosted exterior, and in its place is the embracing warmth to which you’ve been accustomed. And when he calls you by name, those eyes try mighty hard to break through your hardened wall; they fail. 

“Hi Steve,” you say, rising from your crouched position. You brush the coarse dog hairs from your hands, then gift him the container, the silver bow catching the porch light just so. “This is for Garrett. And there are a few treats in there for Penny too. Tell him not to eat the bone-shaped ones.” A close-lipped smile manifests on your face, and you start back down the steps. 

“Wait.” You hear hurried movement followed by the heavy door shutting behind him. You pick up the pace, forgoing the slippery walkway and trudge through the accumulated snow in the front yard, creating your own haphazard path towards your car. You aren’t the least bit surprised when Steve beats you to it. He stands between you and the passenger side, and avoiding him eludes you. You gaze up at him, and he’s without a coat, dressed in only a black sweater and jeans, but you get the distinct feeling that Steve will manage just fine. 

“You’re not taking my calls,” he starts, and you watch the visible puffs of his breath climb into the night, contrasting against the darkness. 

“That’s quite astute of you.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, his posture steeped in contrition. 

A strong gust of wind blows past, and you turn your head away to avoid its burn. “For what exactly?” you inquire. 

“I had no right to get angry with you. I yelled, I dragged you into that empty room. I shouldn’t have done any of that, and I’m sorry.” Steve shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and his face is an ocean of regret. “I want to make things right by you.” He leans forward, narrowing the gap between you by inches, and you instinctively fold your arms across your chest. “And if it takes me fifty years to earn back your trust, I want to spend fifty years doing just that.”

You tilt your face down, burrowing it under the comfort of your scarf, then meet his stare. “You saying you’re sorry doesn’t automatically fix things between us. You hurt me, Steve. I can’t just forget that because you said some heartfelt words.”

Steve takes a step closer to you. “Then what can I do to convince you that I’m truly sorry?”

“I don’t know. It’s not that easy.” 

“Why?”

At this, the coldness you’ve been projecting dissolves as your anger boils, and the bitterness rises in your throat, spilling over. “Because you were fucking awful to me. Don’t you get that?” you spit. “Protecting Rhodes, and all of you for that matter, is part of my _job_ , and you don’t get to make me feel guilty or bully me out of doing my _job_.” Your words echo down the empty street, bouncing off trash cans and bikes left in driveways, and you collect yourself, pulling your anger back inward. “You were an asshole to Rhodes, and you were an asshole to me,” you whisper. 

“And I’m sorry for that,” he apologizes yet again. “You’re acting like I’ve changed. I haven’t. It’s still me.” You see him hesitate for a moment, his mind trying desperately to read yours, and he tilts your chin up to look at him. Under the amber glow of the street lamps, you notice the deep inset of lines spanning his forehead, and the way his long lashes cast downward toward his full beard prods at your heartstrings. 

“No, it’s not,” you counter, removing his hand and returning it back to his waist. “I used to think Steve Rogers could never hurt me.” You avert your eyes as your volume shrinks. “How wrong was I, huh?”

“If I could take it back, I would, in an instant and without question.” Steve’s earnestness mixes with the tufts of flurries, and you stand there in silence, at a loss for words but wishing that somehow, you could find your way back into his arms. “I got you something.” Steve pulls an envelope from his back pocket and extends it towards you. “Open it,” he encourages. 

“Is this a Christmas present?” you ask, and you can’t help but chuckle softly as you slide its flap open.

“No, of course not. You hate Christmas,” Steve remarks while you remove the piece of sepia-tinted paper from its casing. You sense a note of playfulness in his tone, and you won’t admit it, but you feel grateful that it swallows a slice of the thickly shared tension. 

Your eyes move left to right, processing each row of neatly typed words. As you continue to read, your limbs grow heavy and numb all at once, and the anger which you’d previously contained bursts forth, pricking your fingertips with remarkable heat in spite of the cold. “This is a job offer from White Plains General.” 

“Yes. I was hoping…”

“You’re still doing it,” you interrupt as a flood of rage courses through your blood stream. 

“Doing what? Trying to help you? Help us?” You stare at him, incredulous at the innocence in his voice and the sincerity plastered across his beautifully clueless face. 

“I can get a job on my own, Steve!” you seethe, unsure if you’re more outraged by his naiveté or his complete disregard for your wellbeing. “What you’re trying to do is to get what you want without having to give anything up, as usual.” You shove the letter into his hand, the disgust apparent in the way your palm slaps against his. “This doesn’t solve anything, and the fact that you did this without my consent, the fact that you think this is what I’m angry about…for fuck’s sake, Rogers.” You push past him, kicking up chunks of ice and snow, and walk around to the driver’s side of your car. 

Steve remains frozen to the spot on the curb, but his body turns, following your movement. “Then tell me what you want me to sacrifice, and I’ll do it. You’re my person. I’m not giving you up that easily.” 

You’re about to unlock your door when you stop and gaze up at him. “I’m not doing that.”

“Why can’t I win with you?” Steve replies, throwing his arms up dejectedly. “You’re clearly mad at me for being selfish and yet when I ask you what I need to let go in order for you to forgive me, you’re silent.”

You lower your key and glance at Steve over the roof of your car, your eyes shining with sincerity. “Because I don’t want you to resent me,” you admit, your initial anger fading, and your resolve taking its place. “If I tell you what to give up, and you do it, you will resent me.”

Hearing the shift in your tone, Steve ambles over to you, each step of his boots heavy with determination and guilt. “I won’t,” he promises. 

“So you think now. But that resentment will come. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or five years from now.” You stare up at him, and the irony is that his proximity is what you both crave and what you bristle at. You continue with your explanation. “But it’ll have its due, and I don’t want you to hate me because of it.” 

You listen to the wind as it blows through the boughs of the neighboring trees, and its sharpness highlights Steve’s silence, his eyes sweeping over your features. “If I’m important to you, if you’re my person,” your voice falters at the last word, “you will figure out what you need to do to compromise. All I want, Steve, is to be your equal, and I can’t be unless you’re taking risks for us, too.” You reach up and brush the snowflakes from his scruff, and the heat from his skin beckons you to stay. You resist, stepping to the side, opening your door, and climbing in. 

“Merry Christmas,” Steve whispers, glancing down at you. 

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have a helluva hard time staying mad at this face.  
> 
> 
> Alright, so as per usual, THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the kudos, comments, hits, and subscriptions! (Yes, all caps were necessary for that last sentence.) This fic started off as just a little persistent idea floating around in my brain, and the fact that it's turned into an actual story and that people enjoy it is mind-boggling. Needless to say, I appreciate your support to no end, and you guys are the legit best. Full stop. Don't @ me. 
> 
> If ya got a second, leave a comment in the box below. Life has been crazy busy, but I always enjoy reading your reactions, responses, predictions, suggestions, and anything and everything you write. Thanks team!


	14. Questioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Yeah I’ve been feeling everything_  
>  _From hate to love_  
>  _From love to lust_  
>  _From lust to truth_  
>  _I guess that’s how I know you_  
>  _So I hold you close_  
>  _To help you give it up._  
>  -“Kiss Me” by Ed Sheeran

The tires scrape across the blend of asphalt and concrete, and as the plane slows, the screeching sound that dragged you from your sleep still rings faintly in your ears. You rub your hand against your forehead, and you create small circles with your fingertips in hopes of lifting the foggy haze from your brain. Grabbing your water bottle from your backpack, you drink from it slowly, and each sip restores your consciousness a bit more. 

You knew that returning home wouldn’t solve your problems with Steve, but at the very least, it would keep your mind occupied. Between helping your sister prepare Christmas brunch, assembling a mountain of toys for your nephew, and racing to the tavern to catch up with friends over late dinners and drinks, being home not only kept thoughts of Steve at bay, but it provided you with a sabbatical from your worries. Which, as you look out the window at the solidly gray sky, was definitely for the best. It was hard to feel anything but content when in the comfort of your old house, among the people who’ve known you longest, and in a place where you get to slip back into the person you once were for a few days. 

The seatbelt light dims, and its chime unleashes a rush of activity throughout the cabin. You stand, giving your legs time to straighten, and are thankful when it’s your turn to grab your bag from the overhead compartment. You put your earbuds in, and as the music crescendos, it drowns out the noise, making the walk through the narrow cabin, the swirling crowds, and the endless terminals move quickly. Once you head outside, the chill pinches at your bare skin, and you roll your sleeves down over your hands to fend off the cold. You’re about to check the time when a black SUV slows alongside the curb, and in the driver’s seat is a recognizable cut of glossy, straight red hair. After it comes to a stop, you toss your hand-carry into the open trunk, remove your earbuds, and buckle into passenger’s side. 

“Hey Nat. Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem,” she replies, checking her blind spot then pulling into the open lane. “Glad to do it. How was your Christmas?”

You fiddle with the radio station, switching through some Top 40 countdowns. “It was good. A few days at home was just was I needed,” you answer, finally settling on a 90’s station, not quite ready to leave your recent venture into past. “What’d you do for Christmas?”

“Not much actually. Bucky and I went to Clint’s to watch the kids open presents and stayed for dinner.” You note the split-second pause before she continues, and to you, it might as well be a secret porthole into the inner workings of Natasha Romanov. “They renovated after Thanksgiving. The house looks nice.”

You stare straight ahead, focusing on the brake lights of the car in front of you. “Buck went with you?” you ask, and your inquisitive tone jabs at Nat’s side, prodding her to spill. 

“Don’t say a goddamn word.”

“I didn’t,” you return innocently. 

Nat hits the gas as the light changes to green, and she glances over at you, eyes outlined in accusation. “You were going to. You had a look.”

“Well, now I have to ask,” you say, shrugging nonchalantly. “ _Is_ there anything going on there?”

“No.”

Her abrupt answer directs you to change course, but you nevertheless grin cheekily while Nat merges onto the interstate. “Alright,” you concede. You turn the volume up as a new song begins and miraculously mouth the words, despite having not heard it in ages. Nat is the one to break the brief silence. 

“What about you? Talked to Steve?”

Sighing, you turn towards her. “Not since before Christmas. Why? Has he said something to you?”

“Yes, he slipped me a note in homeroom that said to meet him between gym and math class, and he told me to tell you that he’s sorry,” she answers, her voice dripping in sarcasm. 

“I get the picture. I won’t ask about Steve.”

Nat speeds up, bypassing a straggling car, then weaves around it until she’s in the far left lane, approaching 80. “You’re both my friends. I’m not going to be the go-between in this fight. And don’t worry, it’s not just you. Steve asked me before you left, and I turned him down, too.” Her sarcasm vanishes, and in its place is a sincerity that you rarely hear from Nat. With it, comes the realization that as clandestine as you’d like your relationship to be, it has affected other people, in ways both small, like for Nat and Bucky, and big, like for Sam and Rhodes. And you get the nagging feeling that if you and Steve choose to be together, this ripple effect will only continue, growing in depth and breadth. You watch the trees and houses lining the highway blur into a smear of green and beige, unsure of how you feel about that. 

“Can I say one thing about you and Steve before we put this to rest?” Nat asks, lowering the visor then her aviators as the sun breaks through the clouds. 

“If I say ‘no,’ will that stop you?” A guffaw tumbles out of her mouth, and nothing more needs to be said to solidify her answer. “That’s what I thought. What is it?”

“I’ve known you for awhile now, and Steve…well, when I think about it, he might be my best friend.” You smile at the hint of surprise in Nat’s voice, as if in this moment, she finally figured where Steve stood in her closely guarded life. “You guys are a couple of stubborn jackasses…”

“Thanks Nat…” 

“But you two are good together.” She looks over at you, and you raise your brow in both surprise and awe, touched by the sentiment. “I hope it works out.”

You try to hold back, but you can’t resist the opportunity to needle her once more. Maybe one day you would learn not to taunt a former assassin, but today would not be that day. “And I hope it works out with Bucky,” you shoot back. 

“We aren’t dating.”

A sly grin spreads across your lips. “Yet,” you add for good measure as Nat takes the last cut-off, the one that will bring you closer to work, Steve, and reality, for better or for worse. 

Once you arrive at the hospital, you rush up towards your office, knowing you have a mere few minutes before your shift begins. You and Nat hit some traffic just outside the suburbs, and while you normally wouldn’t worry about showing up for rounds a tad late, your recent meeting with Maria and Pepper lingers in the forefront of your brain. Several weeks remain until the microscope you’ve been under lifts, and you don’t want anything, even being a minute late to your shift, to thwart that, regardless of whether you pursue another job. You slam the door behind you and pull your work attire out of your bag, sliding your herringbone skirt over your leggings, then tucking in your button down. Glancing in your closet mirror, you style the wayward strands of hair into place and hurry down to the attendants’ station to grab your caseload for the day. 

Your eyes move quickly over the iPad screen, and you beam when you see the first name on your list. _Lieutenant Samuel Wilson_. You read through the notes left by your colleagues as you walk towards his wing, looking up only to wave at well-known faces that bypass you in the hall. You stop outside of Sam’s room and knock first as a warning before entering, the sound of your heels clicking behind you against the patterned tile. 

“Doc!” he greets you warmly, and between him and Bucky, you aren’t sure who your favorite patient may be at this point. 

“Hi Sam. Hi Colonel,” you say, nodding at Rhodes seated to Sam’s left. You approach the bed and look over the monitors, reading his heart rate and blood pressure. “How are you feeling?” you ask, stopping at his bedside. 

“Great. But itching to get out of here,” Sam remarks as your fingertips move across the screen, updating his vitals. 

“Between you and me,” you scoot a notch closer to Sam so you’re just within earshot, “I think that’ll happen sooner than you think.”

“Good because this isn’t how I wanted to spend my holiday.”

“No?” you reply, crossing your arms and hugging the iPad closer to your chest. “But it’s so wonderful here.” Irony hovers over your words, and your brows flick upward with it. 

Sam lifts his hand, as if afraid you’ll take offense. “I’ve stayed in the VA hospitals. Don’t get me wrong. This is a spa compared to that experience,” he notes with dramatic flare. “But being home…” 

“Sam, you’re preaching to the choir. I was just home, and it was quite close to perfect.”

Rhodes leans forward in his chair and rests his elbows on top his knees. “Man, am I looking forward to that. It’s going to be a great few weeks.” His face lights up with excitement and anticipation at the thought and meanwhile, yours changes, revealing your slight confusion at his statement. 

“Colonel,” you begin cautiously, “I looked at the active on-call schedule before I left. Your name was on there for the next two missions. I remember seeing it because I signed up as the physician for those as well. Are you not going now?” 

In fact, it was one of the last things you had done before you left. You knew that going home would keep your mind active for the time being, but you needed to fill up any unencumbered time you had once you returned, so as to avoid worrying over what would pass with Steve. You signed up for the two missions where his name was missing, and those were the two with Rhodes’ name attached. You were sure of it.

Rhodes shakes his head, and your bewilderment begins to coalesce with apprehension. You shift your weight from your left foot to your right in an effort to shake it from your apparel. “Not anymore. I _was _assigned to those missions, but Tony stopped me, maybe, an hour ago, and said to take the time off. And to thank Steve.”__

__“What does Steve have to do with it?” Sam inquires, sliding up the headboard of the bed. Clearly, your interest is not the only one piqued by this curiosity._ _

__“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “but I do know that my grandma makes the best apple pie south of the Mississippi, and I still have work to do before I can taste it.” Rhodes stands up and gently claps Sam on the shoulder. “Feel better, and again…”_ _

__Sam’s eyes grow wide like saucers. “Don’t you fucking dare apologize.”_ _

__Rhodes smiles and nods, heeding Sam’s firm order, before exiting the room. You and Sam exchange a weighty look, and while suspicion hangs precariously between your stares, neither of you proceeds with the questions that sit suspended in the air. Instead, you glance back down at your iPad, scanning through his file once more._ _

__“Well, Lieutenant Wilson, I’m going to consult with Dr. Lee since he’s been monitoring your progress, but I think he’ll agree with me when I say you can probably go home tomorrow.”_ _

__The worry briefly evaporates from Sam’s dark brown eyes, and as its usual richness returns, he tilts his head at this news. “Really? That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear. I’ve got people waiting for me, you know?”_ _

__“Yes, I met her,” you reply, starting towards the door. “Alexa is lovely, as is your mom.”_ _

__“Thanks Doc.”_ _

__“I’ll come check on you when my shift is nearly done this evening.”_ _

__It takes a couple of hours to finish rounding, and while you tend to your patients with the utmost care and give them your full attention, questions about Steve plague any and all of your free moments: walking from room to room, stopping to grab your sweater from your office, and even scarfing down a pastry en route to meet with Dr. Lee. What was Rhodes talking about? And how is Steve involved? Did he give Rhodes the weeks off? Was this his way of making concessions for you? Between the jet lag, your nonstop shift, and trying to figure out how Steve factors into this puzzle, you could feel the beginnings of a headache forming in your right temple. You grab a couple of aspirin at the nearby nurses’ station and gulp it down. You’re about to start filling out the paperwork for Sam’s discharge when your pager buzzes._ _

_Meet in my office. Now. Tony._

You almost begin dialing him from your cell, ready to explain that you still have more to do before you can leave the infirmary, when your pager vibrates again. 

_Don’t worry about your shift-- it’s covered. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. See you in five._

__The ride across the facility grounds takes no more than a few minutes, but it’s enough time for your eddying scraps of worry, anxiety, and intrigue to latch onto your senses. You wish you brought your water with you as your throat resembles sheets of sandpaper, and while you try to maintain a blank countenance, the thought of facing Tony causes your brow to furrow inevitably. The car approaches the large, pristine building, which in all actuality, is quite beautiful under the reflection of the winter sun and sheaths of snow. Finally, when the chauffeur holds your door open, you wipe your damp palms against the seat fabric and step out onto the salt-covered walk. At this point, it’s almost like your brain shifts into autopilot, your mind working overtime to untangle some kind of reasonable answer while your body manages to make its way through the maze of stacked floors and winding hallways._ _

__Your pace slows when you reach Tony’s office, not because you’re unsure of its location, but because you’d expected the door to be open once you arrived, given the supposed urgency of this meeting. It is closed, and as you move the handle, locked. You inch forward, mindful of the sound of your Mary Jane heels, but can only make out a vague sense of discussion amidst low voices. You back away just in time as the office door opens, and your eyes grow large at seeing Nat walk past you. She stares at you, and in that instant, her sage-tinted eyes mirror the same level of sincerity and concern you’d noticed earlier in the car. Something is not as it should be, and whatever this discord is, it refuses to be ignored._ _

__“Come on in.”_ _

__Tony’s shockingly chipper voice unplugs the roar of your thoughts, and when you cross the threshold, you take in the stunning view of the campus and neighboring forest from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Without intending to, you drink in the décor and layout of the room, your eyes so engaged by the visuals in front of you, that you neglect to see Maria and Pepper seated on the couch. A blush marches across your clavicle, and you adjust your necklace when you realize your faux pas. Pepper beckons you to sit across her and Maria, and you do as you’re instructed._ _

__“Would you like a drink?” Tony asks. You watch him out of your peripheral vision as he pours himself a glass of scotch._ _

__“No, thank you,” you return, airing on the side of caution._ _

__The clink of the ice cubes against the tumbler grows louder when Tony leaves the bar, stopping behind Pepper. “Are you sure? You’re not on the clock anymore.”_ _

__You hope that this isn’t some kind of test, but shake your head ‘no,’ preferring to stay level-headed in a meeting with your superiors. “I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” you assure him. “Actually, I’d like to know what this meeting is about, if you don’t mind me asking.”_ _

__Situating himself between you and Maria, Tony lowers himself into the open seat. He takes a sip from his glass then places it with care onto the end table, and when he looks at you, the snark you’re accustomed to seeing is gone. He stares at you with seriousness instead, and it unbalances you to say the least._ _

__“I owe you an apology,” Tony admits._ _

__“For…”_ _

__“The last time we met. And more importantly, I want you to know that as of a few hours ago, Ms. Potts, Ms. Hill, and myself made sure that not only is the disciplinary action expunged from your record, but your status as an attending at this facility is fully reinstated. You…” Tony pauses, eyebrows moving inward at your miffed appearance, “look like you need a moment?”_ _

__You heard every word he said, but you can’t help but feel as if you missed a vital chunk of information. None of this makes a lick of sense. It wasn’t that long ago when you sat down with Pepper and Maria, confessed your desire to apply to other hospitals, and confirmed the time left on your probationary period. That was ten days ago, and you’d only been home for three of them. What exactly happened in the time you’d been gone?_ _

__You smooth your hands over your skirt, focusing on the feel of the material underneath your fingers to steady you. “Mr. Stark,” you begin, “I’m sorry, but I have no clue what is going on, and I have several questions.” He nods, and you continue. “First—don’t take this the wrong way—why the change of heart?”_ _

__Tony shifts his body so he’s facing away from you. “Pepper? Maria? You both head up HR, so I’ll leave it up to you ladies. Does she need to know?”_ _

__“Yes,” Maria answers. “Tell her.”_ _

__* * *  
“Since when do you call meetings?”_ _

__Steve arches his brow in surprise, and his mouth curls up into a half-smile. “I call meetings all the time,” he replies, gesturing for Tony to take a seat._ _

__Tony hesitates for a second, attempting instead to read his teammate’s affable face, and coming up short, he takes up residence in the open chair. “Not in your office,” he clarifies. “I designed this room for you before we even broke ground, and I don’t think you’ve used it once.”_ _

__A soft chuckle rises out of Steve, and he nods in acknowledgement at Tony’s musing. “No, I haven’t.”_ _

__“So why now?”_ _

__“There’s something you need to know,” Steve says, pursing his lips together. He takes a deep breath. “I was the one who asked for Bucky to be cleared before he was injured abroad. I asked the attending to sign off on him, even though she didn’t want to, and I used my command to get her to do so.”_ _

__As Tony processes this confession, it’s quiet for a moment. Steve’s blue eyes shine with his characteristic earnestness, and in spite of his astonishing intellect and multiple degrees, Tony stumbles when he considers the implication of Steve’s words. He opens his mouth to respond, but Steve cuts him off._ _

__“And I was also the one who hit Rhodes after Sam was injured.”_ _

__“No,” Tony shakes his head dismissively, “Rhodes told me that…”_ _

__Steve holds his hand up at this, effectively grinding Tony’s statement to a halt. “Whatever he told you was a lie because Rhodes is a good man. He didn’t want me to be found culpable.”_ _

__“And what do you want me to do about all this?”_ _

__“Well, for starters, Rhodes worked over Christmas. Give him days from my personal leave and let him go home for awhile.”_ _

__“I’ll do you one better,” Tony replies, barely concealing his frustration. “You will take his spot on the missions he’s slotted for, and your salary for that time will go towards Rhodes since clearly, you were an asshole.”_ _

__“Great,” Steve says, and the amount of sincerity in his voice is too much for Tony to handle._ _

__Never one to stay seated for long, Tony gets up and paces the length of the carpet, each footstep sparking his neurons into action. “So, what else do you want from me? Do you also want me to assuage your guilt? I’m not a priest, Rogers.”_ _

__Rolling his eyes at the sharp reply, Steve sighs. “I want you to make things right by the attending. She never deserved to be punished in the first place. And,” Steve stares directly at Tony, “I want to step down as leader of the Avengers. I don’t think I deserve it, or for what it’s worth,” he shrugs, “even want it anymore.”_ _

__“No, I won’t allow it,” Tony objects. “Steve, you’re acting as if you’re new to breaking the rules. C’mon,” he urges, stopping in place. “You’ve never given a fuck about the rules before, and now? Steve Rogers is apologetic and giving a shit? What’s changed?”_ _

__As Steve rises from his chair, he stops to look at Tony, the picture of fury and perplexed. Steve smiles, one hand grazing the door handle. “My priorities.”_ _

__* * *  
_Holy shit. Fuck shit mother fucker. He did it. He actually did it._ _ _

__

__You know Pepper is talking, she must be talking because you see her mouth moving, and sound must be coming out because based on the way Maria looks at her, she’s listening intently. But for you, Pepper’s words escape your realm of understanding, and you are surprised when you hear your voice cut her off mid-sentence._ _

__“Can we talk about this later? There’s something I need to attend to that I was supposed to take care of before I left for the holiday, and I didn’t.”_ _

__A quizzical look masks Pepper’s usual composure, but she quickly recovers. “Yes, of course. We can discuss your career and goals a little later, then?”_ _

__“Yes.” You grab your purse from the couch, and Tony escorts you to the door. The click of it shutting prompts you to reach into your bag and remove your phone. You have several texts from Nat, and rather than reply, you call her instead. It only takes a single ring for her to answer._ _

__“Nat?”_ _

__“What is Steve doing?”  
You pick up the pace as you weave through the stairwell, taking the steps in sets of twos and sometimes threes, while you head for the exit. “I…I think I know as much as you do,” you stammer. _ _

__“He’s not answering my calls. He’s not in his apartment. Find him please.”_ _

__“I will.”_ _

__“And after you make sure he’s okay, find out what in the world he’s doing.”_ _

__You end the call, and while you stand outside under the glare of the setting sun, it hits you like a rolling avalanche. You know exactly where Steve is. You unlock your phone, and as you request an Uber, you bite your lower lip because even in this rush of chaos and bombshells and questions finally answered, you feel whole and awakened._ _

__The car drives off, its tires crunching against the gravel, and your eyes meet Steve’s, the pale blue in his standing out against his dark gray coat. He sits on your top step, casually leaning against the post, as if he’s got all the time in the world, December cold be damned. A smile slowly makes its way across your lips, and you walk evenly towards your front porch._ _

__“What did you do today?” you call out, climbing the stairs._ _

__Steve stares right back at you, and his smile matches yours. “Not much.”_ _

__“Well, it seems as if your team and the whole compound are abuzz with ‘not much.’” You reach the top step, and when you stop in front of Steve, he stands, brushing the snow from his pants. You drink him in, and his smell, his forearms, the glow of his eyes in the dusk light makes you ache because it’s been much too long, and it sends a tingle of want through your veins._ _

__“Let ‘em buzz,” he replies, his arms circling your waist._ _

__You stare up at him, eyes glistening. “Are you really stepping down?” you whisper, unable to hide your incredulity._ _

__“Yes. Nat’s going to be great. I’m not worried.” Steve moves in closer, and in the time you’ve been apart, his hair is slightly longer, his beard fuller. In spite of his changed appearance, the moment his breath hits your lips, it unearths everything you’ve ever felt for this man and more._ _

__“Are you sure about this?”_ _

__“Listen,” Steve sweeps a tendril of hair away from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear, “I’ve had a lot of loss in my life. And although it’s shaped who I am, it was time to change the narrative.” Steve stops, framing your face with his hands, and you lean into his touch. “I’m tired of losing what I love.”_ _

__The white puff left from his words disintegrates in front of you, and you press your lips against Steve’s, softly at first, but as he pulls you into him, you crave the taste of his mouth. Steve wraps you into the warmth of his coat and body, and your fingers run through his scruff and over the sides of his neck. You can feel yourself getting lost in each kiss, in the feel of his tongue as it sweeps over yours, and with each tilt of your head, a bigger piece of the world falls away. You manage to come up for a breath, and when you do, Steve leans his forehead against yours, and he sighs contently. And, in this moment, the only thing you can do is smile up at him, marinating in the feeling that you’re finally home._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would honestly never leave my porch if this face and this man were waiting there for me. Bye bye world. This porch is where I live now.  
> 
> 
> 1\. It's the wee hours of Monday morning, but it's still Sunday in parts of the world, so let's pretend I made it by the deadline this week. 
> 
> 2\. I may be a broken record, but IDGAF-- thank you, thank you, thank you for all the kudos, subscriptions (nearly 200, holy hell), and amazingly supportive/hilarious/awesome comments you've left for this story. I repeat this every week, but it really means a lot to know that people are invested in this plot and characters as much as I am. You. Are. All. The. Fucking. Greatest. 
> 
> 3\. If you've got a second, please drop a line or two in the box below. It brings me infinite joy to hear what people think (the good, the bad, reactions, etc.), and it's a vibrantly bright spot in my crazy busy days.


	15. Quelled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So incredibly sorry for the late update. I've been sick all weekend, and this has been the longest chapter to date. But, I think it might be worth it. :)

To say you missed Steve was a bit of a misnomer. Missing Steve wasn’t like missing your subway stop after dozing off somewhere between Lexington and 116th or missing the last piece of your mom’s strawberry cheesecake; those were tangible, fixable, identifiable. No. The way you missed Steve snuck up on you. It darted around corners, just out of sight, and it wasn’t until he was here, on your porch, pulling you into him, did the feeling pin you to the ground, refusing to let you stand. 

It wasn’t even the sex that you missed. It was all the pieces of Steve that quelled the buzzing chaos in your brain into a comforting quiet. And it was those same pieces of Steve that startled your pulse into a full-on, beating sprint. _That_ was what you missed. You missed the feeling of his slightly calloused hands as they brushed over your lower back. You missed the way his smell permeated through your clothes and down into your skin, leaving you smelling of him even after he left, marking you as his. You missed the way he gazed at you when you talked, like every word you uttered mattered more than the last, as if…

You cry out, your thought evaporating, as Steve slides a finger over your clit, and you don’t have to turn around to feel the deep inset of his smile against your neck. 

Nope. Scratch that. You did miss the sex. 

Steve presses his lips down the length of your neck, lapping the trickling stream of sweat, and you shut your eyes as his finger works its way back up, once again grazing the sensitive spot between your legs. Your knees tremble, threatening to collapse under you, and at this, Steve holds you tight to him, closer to him. 

You _definitely_ missed the sex. 

You can’t be certain how much time has passed. Minutes? Hours? The only thing you are certain of is that with each slow, measured thrust, you are hovering somewhere on the precipice, ready to spill over the sides. It would take one hard push, one moment of being filled to the hilt by his perfect cock, and you’d either tumble over the edge or explode into a scattering of particles and molecules and dust. But Steve doesn’t let that happen. He refuses you your release, choosing to tease you, to hold your writhing body against his, firmly enough that you can’t slip away once more. It is both delicious and maddening. 

“Steve,” you whimper, the raspiness in your voice startling you. “Please.”

He begins to slide out of you, and you whine in protest at his retreat. “Yes?” His breath trails along your ear, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Please what?”

“I can’t take much more of this.”

“You can,” Steve assures you, his cock on the verge of pulling out completely, “and you will.” He glides with ease back into you, and as he does so, his teeth sink into the top of your shoulder. A muffled scream catches in your throat, not at the pain or the shock, but at the feeling of being so close to the ledge, tiptoeing along it, but unable to fall into the abyss you so desperately seek. 

Your phone lights up, and the glowing screen momentarily distracts both you and Steve as the device rattles against the varnished nightstand. You reach for your cell, intending either to silence the damn thing or toss it across the floor, but Steve beats you to it. A flicker of recognition crosses his handsome face before he holds it up for you to see. 

_Tony Stark._

“I’m not picking that up,” you adamantly reply. You don’t know whom you’re more annoyed with: Tony for calling at exactly the wrong time or Steve for entertaining this idea in the first place. 

The screen dims and the buzzing ceases, and you’re about to breathe a sigh of relief when it illuminates the darkness of your bedroom yet again. 

“He won’t stop calling until you pick up,” Steve chuckles, placing the phone in your hand. “And if he does stop calling, he’s more than likely to come over here.” 

A swell of irritation punctuates your features, and as you lean forward, attempting to break free from Steve, his long arm wraps around your waist, pressing his forearm into your stomach. You turn back and stare at him incredulously, even as a tiny smile forms on your lips. 

“Steve…”

“I’ll be good.” In spite of his promise, his eyes scream otherwise. You slide your thumb across the glass screen. 

As soon as you pick up, Tony blows past a greeting, and an avalanche of comments and questions roll towards you, ranging from queries about why his jaw is ticking to the strangeness of the lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne.” You couldn’t squeeze a word in if you wanted, and looking at the clock, you figure that you’re deep in the midst of his notoriously manic insomnia bouts. You’re trying to keep up with his bounding monologue when Steve presses his fingertips into your hips, nearly digging into your tender skin. Before you can stop yourself, you exhale audibly. 

“What was that? Are you bored? Out for a run?” Tony asks, and you silently curse, as Steve moves his free hand upwards, outlining your breasts in lazy figure eights. 

“Just a slow, middle of the night jog. I, uh, didn’t get to squeeze one in this morning.” 

Tony pauses, and you can practically hear him considering this, wondering whether to accept this response as truth. Steve rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and your jaw unhinges at his touch. If it wasn’t the perfect balance of delicate and rough, you would sure as hell murder Steve Rogers for this indiscretion. 

“Alright,” Tony continues. “Well, you’re coming to my New Year’s soiree. But there will be no ‘Auld Lang Syne’ purely because that song is terrible.” The definitiveness in his tone catches you off-guard just as Steve runs his fingers through the wet, soft folds at your center. 

“Mmmm…” you return, barely masking the want in your voice. 

“It may be a shock to you, but I feel bad for what’s happened over the past couple months, you know, with your job and all, so you’re coming.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth turn upward, revealing a Cheshire grin, and he thrusts into you, hard. Your insides flutter, and without meaning to, you find yourself agreeing to Tony’s invitation. You’d agree to give him pedicures on the hour if it meant putting an immediate end to this phone call. 

“I always knew Rogers was a renegade disguised as a Boy Scout, but…man, fucking Rogers.” You can practically see Tony’s head as it shakes in dismissive surprise. 

“Fucking Rogers.” 

“You are,” Steve whispers, leaning in so his beard brushes against your cheek. 

You listen to Tony yammering on, something about the location of the party and dress code for the evening, but Steve directs your attention away from the phone and towards him. He pulls further out until his body nearly exits yours, and in spite of his firm grip, you nevertheless try to wriggle away. Your effort is for naught, and instead, your back arches into Steve’s broad chest as his hand continues to pull at your taut nerves, winding them up until you feel as if your body is being stretched in seventy different directions.

“You got all that?” Tony inquires. “You know what, that was a lot. I’ll tell Pepper to email you with the information.” Steve nips at the tender spot along your neck, his fingers still tangled between your legs, and Christ almighty, you’re not sure who’s more relentless in their efforts to distract you: Steve or Tony. 

“Yep, great, I’ll see you then, Mr. Stark.” 

You don’t wait for an answer before ending the call, and in quick succession, Steve unfolds you, laying you against the crumpled pile of bed sheets. The cool linen clings to your damp skin, and there’s little you can do as he spreads your legs apart, kneading your ass with his hands, and drives into you. Your whimpers and whines dissolve into a string of muffled profanities, interspersed with the sound of Steve’s name, until the words melt into an indistinguishable puddle. And when you come, nothing seems to matter; the streams of pleasure radiate from your center outward, awaking every cell and muscle in your body, and the feeling of Steve as he continues to move in and out of you only heightens your sweet release. As you ride the aftershocks of your orgasm, your heartbeat slows, and the heat from your flushed chest warms the sheets underneath you, and when you feel Steve’s muscles go rigid over the length of you, you smile into the quiet. You listen to the way his ragged breath echoes against the crook of your neck, and if given the chance, you could lie here forever, soaking in the blissful satisfaction of this moment.

Steve sweeps your cascading tendrils of hair off your back, pushing them just above your shoulder, and kisses you across the nape of your neck. You luxuriate in the sensation of his soft lips against your skin until he flips you over, and you yelp with a start, staring up at his relentlessly beautiful face. 

“Hey there,” he whispers, looming over you, his long arms flanking your sides. 

“Hi,” you return. “You are a reckless ass.” In spite of your choice of language, looking into his boyishly playful eyes elicits a small laugh out of you. 

Steve grins. “I hope you don’t think that stepping down means I’ll stop being a reckless ass. That’s coded into my DNA.”

“Post-serum or pre-serum?”

“Both. You are laying under 100 years and 240 pounds worth of reckless decision making.” He leans down, and his mouth brushes over yours. You reach up and trace the sharpness of his jawbone with your fingertips, still apparent under the thickness of his scruff. 

“So, you think there’s a way I can get out of going to Stark’s party?” you ask as Steve readjusts, propping himself up on his elbow. 

He looks down at you quizzically. “Why would you do that? I’m going.”

“If we both go, we can’t spend New Year’s together.” 

A flash of mischief sparks through Steve’s eyes, revealing their varying shades of blue. “That’s not entirely true,” he returns, grazing his finger along your collarbone. 

“Steve.” 

“It comes down to this: do you trust me?”

You let the question sit, toying with endless ways in which you could answer, and you bite your lower lip, knowing full well what the truth is. And your consenting smile is all Steve needs as he nods his head slowly. 

“Good.” 

* * *

Bucky glances back at you in his rear view mirror, his brow furrowed in confusion and tinged with annoyance. “Why is everyone surprised when I say I can drive?” he asks, unable to disguise his irked tone.

“No one says you can’t drive” you return. You roll up the sleeves of your charcoal gray sweater as the heated seats warm you beyond your level of comfort. “It’s just that people are surprised that Nat lets you drive.”

“Nat doesn’t let me…” Bucky glances at the passenger side, and Nat’s hazel eyes bore into his, her red lips a straight line crossing the lower half of her face. “Nat lets me drive,” he mutters before returning his focus to the road. 

Nat smiles satisfactorily at this answer then turns to face you. “So, how’s the job search going?”

“It’s okay.” You hold her gaze for a second then look out the window, drinking in the passing city lights before reacquainting yourself with her stare. “There’s a slight problem,” you admit sheepishly. 

Nat’s brows arch in judgment, and it’s enough to spur you to continue talking. “I have interviews lined up. But,” you slide your hands along your skirt, fiddling with the glittery sequins, “they’re not until the end of January.”

“What’s the problem there? Are they in Guam? Are they hospitals that only serve Neo Nazis?” 

You chuckle as Nat’s sarcasm cracks the tension. “Nope, they’re at New York Presbyterian and Lenox Hill, so, not too far. I’d commute or move back to the city, I suppose.”

“I know what it is,” Bucky notes, looking at you through the mirror. “You’re the active on-call for the next two missions.” Bucky comes to a rolling stop at an intersection then picks up where he left off. “And those next two missions,” he says, looking at Nat, “are ones that we are on, including Steve. Right?”

You sigh. “Right. Kind of a conflict of interest.”

Nat is quiet for a second as she processes the problem, but the light in her green eyes hints at a solution. “Well, as of midnight, I’m heading the team. I can move Steve onto another mission,” she suggests as Bucky slows the car, pulling up in front of the Tower. An eager attendant hurriedly approaches the vehicle, and you watch his eyes widen as Bucky’s silver hand waves him away. 

“From what Tony told me, I think Steve is the only one who can replace Rhodes.”

Bucky shuts off the ignition, and after removing the key, he flicks it expertly in his hand, a tick leftover from his Winter Soldier days. As he does this, you can see that it is his turn to mull over your quandary, trying to find a reasonable way out. “If Steve can’t be taken off those missions, you can, right? Make something up. Your dog is sick and needs to go to the vet. You’re going out of town to present at a conference.”

“That won’t work,” you say with a shake of your head. “I was given Christmas, and thanks to Tony, tonight and tomorrow off. No one gets all those December holidays off from work without having to put in some extra time elsewhere. And besides,” you reach across the seat for your coat, “with nearly every attending having to work at least one of those holidays, a lot of them are taking their vacation in January. We’re too short-staffed for me _not_ to go.”

Your predicament hovers in the enclosed space, seeming to double in size as the three of you sit in thought. “On the bright side,” Bucky starts, “we now know, and this gives us time to figure something out.” His resolute tone puts a bookmark in this conversation. “C’mon, let’s head up,” he encourages, flashing you a smile, and you return it, partly out of his attempt to assuage this burgeoning worry and partly because of how Nat reaches over and undoes the knot in his tie. 

“Too formal,” she mentions, stuffing it into her clutch. “Shockingly, Tony likes to keep things more casual on New Year’s Eve.” 

After Bucky hands off the key, the valet having regained his composure, you follow them into the lobby, trailing a few steps behind. You lower the collar on your wrap coat, the color returning to your ears, and as Nat reaches for the elevator button, you notice how her arm almost brushes against Bucky’s before it comes to rest at her side. You step inside the lift and being the last one in, you hit the button labeled ‘Atrium.’ The doors close behind Nat and Bucky, and the ground moves beneath you. You inadvertently cast your eyes down to the floor, noticing a jagged streak of salt marring your leather boot. You reach down to brush it aside, when, in this instant, the carriage comes to a sudden stop. 

“What is it about Stark’s eleva….” Your sassy train of thought derails, barreling completely off the track, once you see Bucky’s hand prying apart the thick, metal doors. The carriage is caught between two floors, and amist the darkness of the shaft, you notice a semblance of light peeking through from the floor above. It’s only when Bucky hoists himself up onto the ledge, swings his sinewy legs onto the tile, and effortlessly pulls up Nat by her outstretched hand, that your mouth drops open. 

“What the fuck?” you shout up at them. 

Nat looks down at you and smiles, her emerald earrings catching the light. “Happy New Year.”

The sound of shoes hitting the elevator floor causes your eyes to shut, and you are positive that the lift has launched into free fall. But when you feel the steadiness of the carriage, your eyes flutter open, and you shake your head in disbelief to see Steve standing in front of you, close enough to touch. You let go of a breath you’ve been holding, and your cyclone of emotions dissipates, leaving behind wisps of adrenaline. He takes a step to the side and turns around, and your eyes track him, confusion turning into clarity when he reaches up towards the doors. A corner of your mouth curves into a half-smile as you catch a glimpse of Steve’s flexed bicep while he casually pulls them shut. 

“What is going on?” you inquire, invading his space. You place your hand on his chest, smoothing the cotton fabric of his pale blue button down. 

Steve looks you over, then hits the ‘down’ button, the elevator whirring to life. “Relationships are about trust and compromise, right?” 

“Yes…”

“And you know I’ve proven myself capable of both, yes?”

You nod your head slowly, your eyes narrowing in a mix of suspicion and curiosity. Steve stares at you, reading your expression like a book he cares to savor, and smiles. 

“Then spend the night with me,” he whispers, his cheek nestled against yours. Steve takes a step back and places his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and your heart and breath quicken at his complete ease. 

The elevator doors open, and you nearly grab Steve’s hand before remembering where you are. You take two steps for every one he takes, doing your best to keep up with his long strides, until you are standing along the busy sidewalk, pedestrians weaving past you. Steve continues to walk, and he makes it a few yards when his pace slows, and he turns on his heel to look back at you. You tug on your coat’s panels, pulling them in and retying the waist to lock in the warmth. From down the block, Steve’s eyes dart to the curve of your hips, drinking you in from afar, a painting to be admired. 

“I didn’t say ‘yes’ yet,” you call to him as he ambles back. 

“You and I both know you will.”

“Just tell me two things, and I will go wherever you want,” you promise.

Steve stops in front of you, and with a head tilt and arch of his eyebrows, you know he’s complying with your request. 

“Tony was rather insistent that I attend this party. Where does he think I am?”

He smiles cheekily. “Home sick with a head cold.”

“And you?” Your eyes glisten under the amber streetlights. “Where are you supposed to be?”

“Leaving early to visit with WWII veterans,” he replies, his impish grin widening, verging on charming. 

“Steve!” you scold, the mortification in your voice clear in spite of your muted volume. “Don’t pull me into a lie that involves war veterans.”

Steve holds you by your narrow shoulders, stroking his thumb reassuringly across the width. “I visited with them yesterday. I’m an asshole, but not that much of an asshole.” You snicker soundlessly, marveled by the sheet amount of thought Steve’s deposited into this evening and his self-deprecation. He puts his hand out, and you take it, entwining his fingers through yours. “Let’s go.”

* * *

A dull throb spans the arch of your foot, but you push past it, gladly shoving it into the recesses of your mind. Your skate scrapes evenly across the ice, and the peaceful sound trails you, just as much a part of the atmosphere as the classic archway seated at the head of the rink and the gnarled, bare trees outlining its shape. A young boy, no more than seven, blows past, and as you falter, Steve grabs you by your tricep, keeping you upright. You smile up at him, glad that cold masks the rosy hue creeping up your cheeks. 

“This is a pleasant surprise,” you muse, rounding the bend. 

“Why?”

You gesture to the green, red, and white lights, draped through the overhanging tree branches, and the decorative candy canes displayed near the entrance. “I never think to go ice skating in the park after Christmas. Am I a bad New Yorker?”

“Yes, you are,” Steve teases. “And as someone who’s lived in the city, you should know as well as I do that any time after Christmas is the best time to go skating.” 

You glance around the frozen surface, and he’s right; aside from a few families and wayward tourists, the park is rather desolate for this time of evening, both the temperature and New Year’s festivities having kept people otherwise occupied. “But what if I said that I like large crowds and holiday chaos?” you prod, relishing any moment when you can get a rise out of Steve. 

He whips around, blades kicking up flecks of ice until he faces you, still moving, and his eyes meet yours. “Please don’t tell me you want to go to Times Square because I am willing to do literally anything else for you.” 

“No, blegh, that sounds like total shit,” you reply, and Steve swipes his hand across his forward, feigning relief. “By the way,” you gesture down towards his feet, “this whole skating backwards is impressive.”

“Thank you,” he says with a bow. Steve maneuvers easily over the slick surface, and when he returns to your side, drapes his arm across your back, careful not to disrupt your balance.

“When did Captain America learn to do that? Skating backwards,” you clarify.

“1920’s Brooklyn. What else was a poor Irish kid to do?”

“Hmmm….I don’t know.” You dramatically shrug your shoulders then tap your chin in faux thought. “Maybe stay inside since your list of ailments was longer than Santa’s naughty list.” You come to a gradual stop, just beyond the exit, and gaze up at his tall, large frame. 

“You seem to forget that even then,” Steve grabs you by your waist until hips press into yours, “breaking the rules was my M.O.” 

“It still is,” you add affectionately. “You know, between scheming with Nat and Buck, lying to Tony, nearly breaking an elevator…”

“Don’t forget fucking you while you were on the phone with your boss.” Steve lowers his head, his face a mere inch from yours. “At least now, you’re here to temper my rule-breaking.”

Steve holds you steady as he kisses you, and you lace your fingers through the auburn of his beard. You lean into his warmth, his outer layer unable to contain his furnace of a body, and the heat radiates from him into you. At this point, it’s amazing how well your mouth knows his, the feel, its taste, yet you crave it, never satiated, and you are perfectly at peace with that. Steve plays with hem of your sweater, and when his pinky grazes your bare skin, you pull apart, having felt the weight of eyes on you. You look across the rink, and Steve’s line of sight follows yours towards a pair of young sisters, mittens covering their giggling mouths, as they stare in your direction. You wave bashfully, and figuring that this is the universe’s cue, you and Steve leave the icy pond behind. 

* * *

“How have you never, not once in your very long life, eaten an apple cider donut?” You hold open the wax paper bag, and the steam from the hot pastry billows forth. Steve grabs one off the top, and you both proceed to walk down the aisle of booths, ranging from seasonal quilts, homemade jewelry, and roasted chestnuts. 

“Maybe I’ve been busy during my very long life. I saved this island. A little appreciation wouldn’t hurt,” he retorts. 

You roll your eyes dramatically as you remove one of your gloves. “You didn’t do that single-handedly,” you return. You watch Steve bite into the fresh donut, and he nods his head in approval. “And? Isn’t that the best food?”

“It’s good,” he says, much too matter-of-factly. 

“Good? Just good?” You reach into the flimsy bag, and before taking a bite, hold the donut as if it’s the holy grail, the scent of cinnamon sugar wafting into the night air. “This, Cap, is as close to love as one can get.” 

“Love?” Steve asks between bites. 

“Yes, love,” you respond, savoring the initial taste of the spiced, cakey dessert. You pass a pretzel booth, and as you walk by, swipe a couple of napkins from the dispenser. “I could eat 50 hot apple cider donuts.” You grab Steve’s elbow and stop him in his tracks. 

He looks at you knowingly, his eyes heavy with subtext. “Because you love the donuts. Enough to say it,” Steve emphasizes as you reach up to brush the crumbs caught in his beard. 

Your hand stops then falls futilely to your side, and he looks at you expectantly. “I know you want me to say it…” you start.

“Yes, I do.”

“And I do, too.”

“But?”

“But, this is how I see it. This,” you say, gesturing towards Steve then yourself, “has been a mess from day one. And it’s our mess, and I wouldn’t change it if given the chance. But I want one thing in this mess to be perfect. Just one.” You hold up a finger for emphasis. “And figuring out when to say it is the one thing I can possibly make perfect.” 

You attempt to gage Steve’s reaction, and the confidence in your logic wavers as you take in his stoic features. But when you see the beginnings of a smile traipse across his lips, your body relaxes, and you continue strolling down the line of stalls, this time, one hand in Steve’s, and the other around your pastry. 

“You are truly something,” Steve ponders, staring off into the distance as you walk a few more yards through the outdoor market. “You know that?” His gaze moves down towards you, and he stifles a laugh. “Did you just shove that entire donut in your mouth?”

“No,” you reply, your voice muffled by the lumps of cake tucked into your cheeks. “Yes,” you admit, changing course. Steve laughs heartily at this, placing his hand atop his chest, nearly toppling backwards. 

You swallow what’s left in your mouth and beam at him. His giddiness is infectious. “Don’t you judge me,” you wave your hand in his direction, “they’re only good when they’re hot. You have to eat them fast.”

It takes a few minutes for Steve to collect himself, but once he does, he pulls you closer to him, his arm framing your shoulders. 

“You still love me,” you murmur, turning the corner for the next row of assorted vendors. 

“Almost as much as you love apple cider donuts.”

“ _Almost._ ”

* * *

“Sorry I took so long in the bodega. I think the beard makes me look suspicious. Do you think I should shave it? Anyway, he asked me for my ID, and I mean, you’ve seen me both ways, my face looks pretty different with facial hair, so it took awhile for me to convince the cashier that yes, I am Steve Rogers. And then he wanted a picture…”

“Steve?” you call out over the clang over your boot hitting the steel bar. 

“Yeah?”

“Don’t talk to me while I’m five stories above a back alley and could fall to my death,” you return, hoisting yourself up the last few rungs of the fire escape. 

Once on solid ground, you brush the flecks of chipped, black paint from your reddened palms, and you gravitate toward the edge of the roof. You had been doubtful that this would be worth it. The building was only five stories after all, and it wasn’t like it was even in Manhattan. You spent a good part of the last hour riding the subway and transferring lines in order to head into Brooklyn after Steve promised you that the view was worth it. It, in fact, is. You absorb the sight of the meandering river against the twinkling urban lights and breathe in the chilled air. After your ascent, it fills your chest, invigorating your lungs. At hearing Steve’s shoes hit the pavement, you turn around and mosey back to him. 

Wordlessly, he hands over the translucent bottle, and you tuck it under your arm, watching him remove his coat and jacket. He tosses both onto a neighboring vent, rolls up his sleeves, and folds them up to his elbows. As he fiddles with the cuffs, you moisten your lips because, you hate to say it, this man’s flawlessly crafted arms are your weakness; they are lean but not bulky, golden but not bronzed, and hairy but not overly so. And when Steve glances at you, you become aware of the faint perspiration lining your temple and the heat trapped between your sweater and outer layer. Whether it’s because of the way you feel when Steve looks you over or from the climb, you can’t be sure, but you welcome it nevertheless. 

“Ready?” he asks, weaving his fingers through yours. 

“Yes.” 

He guides you towards the ledge, and you set the bottle and your purse on the exposed brick. Steve’s hands move over your shoulders, sliding down the thick, wool material until it pools into a heap on the ground.

“Thanks,” you whisper. You unzip the main pouch on your bag and remove the set of plastic cups, setting it next to the bottle. Your eyes move over the water once again, and this time, when you look closely, you can see movement in the Hudson, small tufts of white foam rising up from the crests. With it, the pestering question you’ve been pushing down floats to the surface, buoyant and refusing to be ignored. 

“Steve, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Without any effort, Steve removes the cork from the champagne bottle and pours the fizzy liquid into both cups. “Hit me.”

You start to pick at the cuticle around your thumb, then shake your hand, as if doing so will still your nerves and cast off your bad habit. “Why are you stepping down?”

Silently, Steve lowers himself onto the ledge. “Come here,” he urges, motioning for you to join him. You do, sitting across the width of his lap, and rest your head against him. 

“You know, I never set out to be a leader. I only wanted to do what was right, and I guess,” he smiles wistfully, “people followed. So, I made a career out of it. But, it comes with a lot of baggage; when I chose to crash that plane, I gave up a whole other life because of it.” You wrap your arms around his neck and lovingly trail your finger along its side, waiting for him to resume. “Even now, I haven’t had to do that, but I’m the first one at work, the last one to leave the facility, the one in charge of briefing, debriefing, reconnaissance. All of that was fine. Then I met you.”

“I never wanted you to give up something you weren’t ready to…”

Steve places his hand over yours, the hint of a smile playing along the edges of his face. “Just listen. I enjoy what I do, being an Avenger. But I don’t want it to let it take over my life anymore.” Steve looks up at you, his eyes brimming with hope. “Not if I want to build a life with you.”

“Is that the truth?”

Steve’s smile turns into a full grin, revealing his straight, white teeth, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m always honest.”

You pull Steve into a kiss, crushing your lips to his, and it is everything a New Year’s Eve kiss should be: messy, hot, and lovely. You listen to each breath he emits because they are the sweet nothings that confirm you are, indeed, his. You trace patterns along his clavicle, letting your fingers linger over the skin, and you sink deeper into Steve, his fingers enmeshed in your hair. You startle when you hear the chime of your alarm, and you break away, reaching into your bag to silence it. Steve’s mouth opens, and you quickly place your hand over it before he can say a word. 

“It’s 11:59. And I think the last thing you should hear this year is that I fell in love with you.” You glance down at your watch, and as you sit there, still holding your palm over Steve’s mouth, you notice his cheeks turn upwards in delight. The second hand ticks away, and once it passes the twelve, you lower your hand. “And it is now 12:00, and I want you to start the year, knowing that I’m in love with you.”

You curl up into the space between Steve’s neck and his chest, and he plants a soft kiss on the side of your face. 

“You know what?” You lift your head and glance over at him as his voice punctures the quiet. “You were right. New Year’s wins over Christmas. Every time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRB. I'm driving myself to the hospital since my ovaries have exploded.  
> 
> 
> 1\. So, because of the craziness that is real life (work, friends, bae, commitments, getting sick, etc.), I'm going to go out on a limb and say that this story will be updated on Mondays from now on. It's been hard to get the bulk of each chapter written during the week, and this way, it gives me more time to write, revise, and edit on the weekends. Do not worry-- I'm not abandoning this fic. 
> 
> 2\. Ya'll. Real talk for a second. THANK YOU for all the kudos, subscriptions, hits, and comments. Seriously. It takes time to work on this story, so to know that it's appreciated, that people read it, and, holy crap, that people like it? That is flattering as hell. Please know that it means the world to me.
> 
> 3\. Whew, I feel like both a lot and a little happened in this chapter? No? Just me? Regardless, if you have a second, if you'd like to brighten my day (because really and truly, reading comments DOES do exactly that), please drop some lines in the box below. :)


	16. Overpowered

You feel yourself drooping, your body sinking into the peaceful lull of unconsciousness, when the raucous peel of laughter wakes you. It sends a palpable vibration through your muscle fibers, and the feeling is akin to knocking back a shot of espresso. Your eyes flit open, and you sit further up, lifting your chin from the palm of your hand and straightening your spine against the easy chair. You haven’t even touched a drop of alcohol, and yet here you are, clearly fading after a late dinner; albeit, the jet lag doesn’t exactly help. 

You stand up, pulling your arms above your head, and with it, you hear the joint in your hips pop as well. The audible crack pulls Clint’s attention away from the group and towards you. 

“You’re not turning in already?” he asks, looking you over, his notable disappointment encouraging you to stay. 

“I can’t keep up with you all,” you reply, shaking your head, as a few loose pieces of hair unravel from your haphazard bun. “Especially that one over there.” You smile in Nat’s direction as she tips back her glass of clear liquid. Besides, you don’t have to stay up with these guys to know that Nat will be the last woman standing by the end of the evening once slumber claims them one by one. 

“One shot,” Bucky encourages with a glint in his eye. He accepts the bottle of chilled vodka from Clint, lines up shot glasses along the table, and pours a thin, precise stream into each.

“I’m on call tomorrow, remember? Gotta stay sharp if I want to save all of your asses.” You laugh as a low and drawn-out ‘oh’ resounds through the room. 

Tony rises from the outer edge of the circle, also looking worse for wear. “I’ll walk you back.”

You’re about to utter a ‘thank you’ and accept when out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve stand, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling.

“You stay,” Steve offers. “There’s no point in me drinking anyway.” His eyes meet yours, and although they linger for a second too long, you can’t bring yourself to pull away. “I’ll walk her back.” 

“You’re a good man, Cap,” Clint toasts as he grabs the shot glass from Bucky. 

Tony raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” 

You and Steve walk in silence, listening to the echo of their chatter and laughter as it bounces around the room and drifts into the halls. Once or twice, Steve’s arm threatens to breach the distance separating the two of you, his hand knocking into yours, and when it does, you redirect your gaze to the ground. If you look at him, you will want to his stagger his fingers through yours, and if that happens, you will inevitably lead him back to your room, and that absolutely cannot happen. You round a corner, and no longer within earshot, Steve’s gait noticeably slows. 

“Your arthritis bothering you, old man?”

Steve stares down at you, straight-faced, and his hair, longer than you’ve ever seen it, falls over his forehead. “You’re hilarious. No one jokes about me being old. Ever. You’ve got such fresh material.” You smile over at him, the sarcasm in his voice pacified by the warmth in his clear, blue eyes. 

“Then tell me why we’re walking at a snail’s pace.”

Steve stops fully in his tracks, and you follow suit. “Because,” he says with a quarter of a smile, “if I can’t kiss you, then the least I can do is make our time together last as long as possible.”

As you face him, it takes a considerable amount of restraint not to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck or to bury your fingers in his dark, blonde hair. In fact, it wasn’t until this trip that you realized just how deeply ingrained these patterns had become, and as you watch Steve lower his hands into the pockets of his sweats, he exhales audibly, his broad chest rising and falling. You get the feeling that you aren’t alone in this frustration. 

“Well, now I’m a jerk,” you mutter, continuing down the deserted corridor. 

“A jerk that holds my life in her hands,” Steve counters, eyeing you subtly. “The pressure is on.” 

You let Steve’s statement hang in the air because in spite of his lighthearted tone, it is a concern that’s been pestering you. To say it’s crossed your mind once or twice isn’t sufficient; it’s constantly simmering on the backburner of your mind, not quite ready to boil over, but there, bubbling, regardless. “Actually,” you sigh, a note of relief evident in your tone, “your life is in Dr. Warren’s hands. Not mine.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you how that came about.” You startle in surprise, your head jerking back. “I’m no longer privy to those kind of decisions,” Steve explains, and you quickly catch onto the subtext. 

“Ahhh, right. From what I heard, Nat requested a second on-call attending due to the ‘high-risk nature of tomorrow’s operation.’ Her words, not mine.”

Steve nods and purses his lips. “Makes sense.”

“But that’s just…Nat said that only because….” The certainty in your smile fades, and you watch Steve carefully. You wait for him to jump in and assuage your worries, but instead, he stares straight ahead. “Is that true? Are you guys anticipating something to go…” You place your hand on the back of his elbow, and Steve pivots, facing you head on. 

“Wrong? Yes. You can’t do this job unless you think about everything that could possibly go wrong.” In spite of his words, Steve manages to allay your worries with a playful flick of his brows. “But, without giving too much away, a lot of planning has gone into tomorrow, and that’s because there’s just a lot that’s unknown.” He shrugs helplessly as you both come to a halt in front of your door. 

“In that case, don’t do anything stupid.”

“You’re not the first person who’s told me that,” he laughs, resting his forearm against the threshold. His head tilts with it, and the angle highlights his structured cheekbones perfectly. You know you should reach into your pocket, dig out your key, and call it an evening. But, you hesitate, choosing instead to stare into the depths of his eyes, and with each second that passes, the urge to pull his lips onto yours increases tenfold. You wrack your brain for a distraction and throw out the first thought that comes to mind.

“So, you’ve really never been drunk?”

“Nah. Well, that’s not _completely_ true,” he replies, raising his brow. “One time, Bucky broke into his dad’s liquor cabinet, and we drank an entire bottle of bourbon in the alley downstairs.” 

You grin at the vividness of that image and chuckle quietly, your mind crafting a picture of a young, mischievous Steve swigging back gulps of Jim Bean. “How’d that turn out for you?”

“I threw up in the middle of the subway then was kicked off at the next stop,” Steve deadpans. 

“If I was a passenger on that car, I would’ve hated you.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone did.”

“And yet, I kind of wish I had known you back then,” you add nostalgically, and you fail to notice your feet shuffling forward, bringing you within Steve’s grasp. 

Steve rubs his hand over the back of his neck, as if contemplating your response. “I don’t,” he scoffs. 

“And why not?”

Steve averts his eyes, looking off in the distance, before returning his concentration back to you. “You’ve seen my file. You know the answer to that.” 

“Is it because I would’ve given you a stroke after trying to devour you?” You tuck your hands into the back pockets of your jeans and glance up at Steve with a flirtatious twinkle. 

The bashful accent framing his face dissipates, leaving a humbled grin in its place. “I wasn’t exactly turning lots of heads back then,” Steve returns, voice lowered. 

“You would’ve turned mine.”

The quiet occupies what little space divides you and Steve, beckoning you to move in closer and tempting Steve to bend his towering frame down towards you. Steve’s gaze wanders over the shape of your lips, and all you want to do in this moment is grab him by the waistband and mold your body to the marble-like form that is his. You resist, but it is a hard-fought struggle. Your almond eyes shine under the lights, and as you stand across him, you lean your weight against the door, unintentionally mirroring him. 

“Do you know,” Steve drops his head so his mouth hovers over your ear, “how hard it is to stop myself from touching you?” Your close your eyes briefly, no longer fatigued, but purring with the sensation of his breath on your bare skin. 

“I think I have an idea,” you reply, your voice laden with desire. “I’d welcome some thigh burn if it meant your face was tucked between them.” Steve’s eyebrows scramble up towards his temple, his expression one of shock and pleasure, and your smile turns wicked. It’s too bad you don’t have much time to soak in your feeling of one-upmanship.

“When we get home, I will make more than just your thighs burn.” The darkness etched into his deep timber sends a shiver down your backside, and as your knees weaken, it’s probably for the best that you are propped against the entryway. 

“How much longer until we’re home?” you sigh. 

“Much too fucking long.”

* * *

 _Six, Seven, Eight, Nine…_ You continue to count the number of chest compressions, but your brow furrows, etching a deep set of vertical lines just above the bridge of your nose. You cock your head to the right as the pair of nurses guide your stretcher down the hallway. Your stacked hands continue to move in quick yet consistent succession, as if in perfect synchronization with your feet, and you listen to Tony’s voice from up ahead. He peppers the staff with an assortment of commentary and questions, in spite of a gushing wound darting across his forehead. That’s it; amidst the commotion in the infirmary, you must’ve heard wrong. 

“You want me to do what?” you repeat. 

“Save him.”

“What about Stark?” _Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…_

“I’m fine.” He tries to hoist himself onto an empty cot, but nearly crumples into a heap of flesh and metal. 

Your eyes narrow into slits. “No, you’re not,” you return. 

An echo of footsteps grows louder, and your focus swings from Tony towards Dr. Warren as he hurries up the corridor. “I’ll take a look at him. You work on that guy.”

“And who is he?” demands Laura, the triage nurse to your left, finally asking what everyone has been wondering. 

“He,” Nat gestures to the strange man lying on the gurney in front of you, “is Eric Williams, former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and current head of Hydra’s East Coast organization. You will save him because dying would be too painless.”

 _Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty._. You bend your head over the metal rail of the stretcher, and you press your mouth against his, exhaling deeply into him. Your line of sight follows the length of his body, and you watch his barrel of a chest undulate with each rescue breath before you stand up. _One, Two, Three…_

While Nat hurries down another hallway, her last words sear into your brain as you wheel your unexpected patient into the O.R. Without speaking, one of the nurses takes over for you, and you press your glove-lined fingers against the side of his thick neck. You search for a pulse, only to come up empty. 

“Defibrillator,” you command. Laura moves with incredible efficiency, and when she flicks the switch on, the hum fills the room. She hurries back towards you, machine in hand, and her scrubs swish against each other, as if in harmony with the low buzz, before setting the defibrillator on the adjacent table. 

You grab Williams, hooking your arms under his shoulders, then glance over at Mike, the nurse who’s taken over the compressions. “Ready?” He reads your expression and pauses, repositioning himself at the man’s feet. “One, two, three,” you count. Even with the two of you, the weight of Williams’ unconscious form threatens to drag you down, but you manage to lift him onto the cool, metal table with a resounding thump. 

Laura hands you the pads, which you adhere strategically across Williams’ chest. Your eyes follow the red dots progressing across the screen, and you silently urge it to move quicker. When the high-pitched chirp drowns the competing noises, your head swivels towards Mike. 

“Do it.”

The jolt of electricity rattles your patient’s body with a start. He settles back onto the table, but the continued absence of his heartbeat drives you forward. You reach over Williams’ battered torso, increasing the voltage level, and the few seconds it takes for the machine to recalibrate feel like an eternity. The beep smashes the stillness in the room, and once it does, Mike hits the gleaming red button on its front. 

It happens slowly, as if the rules of time disintegrate. Your vision follows his arms, up his chest, along his neck, as the sharp current flows through his stilled body. His eyelids thrust open, and under the fluorescent lights, the dark brown color surrounding his pupils looks like jars of honey. His left eye narrows, and as his body returns to the table, the color in it evaporates, like someone switched off the lights. In its place, darkness floods his face, and he has barely sat up when you hear the crack of bones hitting the floor. You see Mike’s unmoving form collapse onto the scuffed tile, and in this moment, you know you should run. Your feet should move with the speed of a wildfire, but they remain glued to the floor, and it is then that you stare into Williams’ expressionless countenance. 

Stubble scatters his cheeks, covering his jawline, and smears of dirt, soot, rusted streaks of blood spread over his skin, up to his temple. A small smile creeps over his lips, and Williams wraps his hands around your neck. The sheer force sends your knees buckling underneath his unrelenting grip. The panic sets in like a slow, rolling fog, and as it does, a piercing scream shatters the air. Your eyes rattle around, desperate to see what’s happening, to find a way out, when he lifts one hand from your throat. You attempt a breath and fail at even this as his other compensates, pressing your neck into the ground. And when you see the gurney careen over the tile and crash into Laura’s side, she folds over into a puddle, taking the metal tray with her. 

The crash deepens your sense of dread, blowing it wide open. Your legs thrash wildly against the floor, and you fight like a cornered animal because, in this instant, you are one. Williams looms over you, and his knees dig into the sides of your ribs. You wish for anything to be able to howl, for someone to hear you, to have enough air to make any kind of noise, but nothing comes out. He tightens his grip. The pain is blinding. Your lungs burn like someone spilled Agent Orange into its cavities, and his hands, his knees, wherever his flesh crushes into yours, starts to extinguish the cells in your body. It would be easy to give in, to let the darkness spread and let the undertow drag you under. And you almost do. Your eyesight is spotty, but you see it; the flicker of a grin, gleeful in nature, as he watches your life slipping away. Your fingertips slide along the grime and stickiness of the tile when they meet something long, cool, and ridged. You encase it in your hand, and with the last of your strength, and you bring it down on him, quick and hard. 

Your eyes grow wide when you see the blood trickling down his shoulder, stopped only by the insertion of the scalpel. He lets you go, his shout reverberating throughout the O.R., and, you cough, your breath coming in sputters and ragged gasps. You want to scream for help, but when you open your mouth, you emit a soundless rasp instead. Frustrated tears threaten to spill out of the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to relent to them. You crawl, your sides shrieking in pain with each movement of your knees, as you shuffle quickly towards the door. It is only when you see Nat’s dark boots break through the entrance that you let the tears fall. After that, everything goes dark. 

* * *  
How strange to be on the other side. You touch the thick, white bandages encircling your ribcage, and while you listen to Dr. Warren as he stands besides your x-ray, your bones illuminated against the bright screen, you can’t help but shake the surreal sensation. It lingers like a nightmare from which you’ve awakened; the details remain fuzzy, but the fear continues to search for a home inside you. You lift your hand to your neck, where the plum-colored traces of Williams’ hands reside, but Dr. Warren stops you. 

“Leave it alone. You and I both know that touching it won’t make it heal faster,” he kindly chides, and you nod in agreement. 

“So you’re sure nothing’s broken? Or cracked?” He shakes his head ‘no’ at your question. “Well, it fucking hurts,” you mutter. 

Dr. Warren manages a weak smile, probably in an effort to cheer you up. “I’d imagine so,” he replies, looking down at your chart. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get dressed, then I’ll have one of the orderlies take you back to your room.”

“Thanks, Doctor.”

After hearing the click of the lock, you try to reach for your shirt, but extending your arm in such a manner sends a searing pain through your ribs. You curse, wishing you’d let one of the nurses assist you in the first place. The sound of the door opening interrupts your thoughts, and adrenaline surges through your veins, throwing up your guard, even hours after. You recognize the rugged face peering through the crack in the door, and as it opens wider, you swallow the hard lump in your throat when you see those kind, blue eyes. 

Steve’s face softens, and he clears the space separating you in two long strides. He covers your entirety with him. Tears well in your eyes, and you allow them to run down your cheeks, as every emotion you’ve kept bottled up spills over. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, and you can feel the wetness from your tears flowing down his front, dampening his shirt. You breathe in deeply, grateful for the air filling your lungs and the scent of Steve, the smell of home. You wince as your lungs contract, and a shooting sting runs along your side. Steve pulls back. As you look him over, you can tell he’s afraid he’s hurt you, which couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“I’m okay,” you assure him with a sniffle. You press your hand to his chest, and the feel of his heartbeat against your palm steadies you. 

Steve gently tips your chin up with his fingers. “No, you’re not.” 

“But I will be. How’s Laura? And Mike?” The rising concern sharpens your tone, and it nearly climbs an octave. 

Steve runs his fingers over your hair, soothingly. “Fine, more or less. A few broken bones, some internal bleeding, but nothing too serious.” 

You nod, relieved. “And Williams?”

The lines on Steve’s face harden, his face becoming an assortment of angles, as his jaw clenches. “He won’t hurt you again.” 

“Steve…”

He frames your face with his hands, and you can see his eyes shimmer even under the dull hospital lights. “I should’ve been here,” he sighs. 

You pull him closer to you, wrapping your arms around his neck, and you stroke the long hair covering its nape. “You followed orders. You stayed behind because Nat needed you to check on civilians.” You smile up at him, and a flood of warmth fills you when Steve leans his forehead against yours. “You did good, Cap,” you murmur. 

Steve moves closer, and his face isn’t an inch from yours. You are close enough that you can see the slightly crooked ridge on the bridge of his nose, a break from a long-past mission that never quite healed. You can make out the light freckles sprinkled across his fair cheeks, apparent even under his forest of a beard. And, more than anything, the affection that pools in his eyes draws you further in. 

“Steve,” you start to pull away, “we can’t…Nat and Tony are right outsi…” 

“Stop worrying about everyone else,” he says, grabbing your hand as you outline a cut along his brow. He lowers it to your side then brushes a tendril behind your ear. “You’re my person. For once, let me take care of you.” 

You close your eyes, and his lips flutter against yours. Steve creates a trail of soft kisses across your cheek, and when he reaches your jaw, he moves downward. His kisses stretch along your neck, lovingly covering the bruised skin with his mouth, and tears once again spring to your eyes, this time not because of the pain, but because of tenderness, because of Steve. He continues a path downward, going slowly along your bandaged ribs, and his hands reach for yours, fingers entwined. When he is done, Steve stands, grabbing your shirt from across the table. You lift your arms up, slightly cringing with its ache, and Steve pulls the material over you, letting it fall into place. Your eyes sweep over him, and although it hurts, you pull him into you, crushing your mouth against his. 

And although you know that the feel of his lips isn’t magic, it won’t heal you overnight, the idea alone that it could, that Steve wants it to, is enough to ease the remnants of pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 1\. I'd be lying if I said that this gif didn't partly inspire this chapter. 
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> 2\. I'm sorry that I didn't update last week Monday. As a woman living in the U.S., this past week has been a roller coaster of emotions, and updating this story wasn't at the forefront of my mind. My deepest apologies for that. 
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> 3\. You guys. You. Guys. The amount of kudos, comments/feedback (again, reading them is one of the greatest perks of writing this fic), and the subscriptions (over 200!) is astounding and humbling and incredible. Thank you so very much for all of the support. It really means the world to know that other people are invested in this story and the characters, almost as much as I am. Ya'll are the best. 
> 
> 4\. That was a heavy chapter, right? If you need to decompress, if you need to yell at me, or if you just want to drop a line, leave a comment in the box below. They make my crazy days much brighter. :)


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